


Roadhouse Ten

by ThayerKerbasy



Series: What Comes Next [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Compliant, Family Don't End in Blood, Found Family, Gen, Past Crowley/Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-13 23:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: Crowley didn’t know what would happen to him after sacrificing himself, but ending up in Heaven with a whole new group of allies was never even on the list.  He could have stayed in his own personal heaven reliving his happiest moments, but those left something to be desired.  Together with a motley crew of deceased Winchester allies, Crowley set out on a mission to improve his afterlife.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a labour of love. It started with a little fic I posted back in July, written purely because I couldn't let Crowley's story end like that. It turned out to be much more successful than I ever dreamed and I had people clamoring for a sequel. Who am I to say no to people who want more good things for Crowley?
> 
> Thus, Roadhouse Ten. It's technically a sequel to [Sundown, Sundown](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11367363) but I wrote Roadhouse Ten in such a way that you don't have to have read the original fic to understand what's going on in this one. They work best in order, but it's entirely unnecessary if you just want to read this one.
> 
> A huge thank you to [Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510) for being an amazing beta. This story wouldn't look nearly as good as it does if I didn't have Grey's help. And a giant thank you to [dmsilvis](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful art. Also, thank you to everyone who asked for more after Sundown, Sundown. This story wouldn't exist without your words of encouragement.

“C’mon Malfoy, pick up the pace! This Forbidden Forest isn’t gonna search itself,” Charlie called back over her shoulder.

The incessantly cheerful redhead some distance ahead of him was not Crowley’s ideal partner for an expedition of this sort — or for anything, for that matter — but his ideal partners were still amongst the living and he was not. His current status as no-longer-living was essentially the reason for their expedition in the first place, and it just so happened that Charlie was free to accompany him.

“You compare me to that whining spoiled brat?” he replied. “I think not. I’m more of a Hermione sort of girl. And the forest isn’t forbidden at all, merely Ukrainian.”

Oak trees towered over them and assorted little plants covered the forest floor. Crowley’s every step kicked a fern or other leafy green thing. There was so much green, anything else would have been a relief.

Charlie paused so he could catch up. “Okay, first, you can’t be Hermione, I’m Hermione. And second, you’re totally Neville.”

Rather than rush, Crowley took his time examining every likely bush or bit of underbrush along the way. To distract Charlie’s impatience, he asked, “And why, pray tell, am I Neville?”

She ticked off her points on her fingers. “Ignored by the main trio of the story most of the time, disappointing childhood, kind of a coward until there was something worth fighting for. Oh, and totally jumped in to be the hero of the moment facing off against the bad guy. That’s what you call character development.”

Before his timely demise, Crowley would have shrugged off those words, possibly claiming he was really Lucius Malfoy or Voldemort himself, just to make the uncomfortable insinuations go away. Demonic Crowley had an image to uphold, and that image didn’t include anything close to the truth. Everything demonic had been stripped from him, though, the moment an angel blade had sent him to Heaven. He was still adjusting to the whole feelings thing.

Demon or not, he still wasn’t comfortable embracing his softer side, so he checked underneath the plants growing around a fallen tree and said, “I don’t see you looking. It’s rather difficult to find a firebird feather when I’m the only one looking.”

“But it’s just a story, isn’t it?” Charlie cast him a plaintive look. “Koschei and the weaver girl, it didn’t really happen like that, did it?”

“You’ve spent enough time with the Winchester boys to know that a story is never just a story.” Crowley continued to poke around under plants as he spoke. “Near as I can tell, Koschei was a powerful witch rather like my mother, one who lived too long and loved nothing, hence the bit about him having no heart. Now, the weaver girl I can’t be sure of, but all signs point to her being a nephilim. She wove things of incomparable beauty, but that wouldn’t have been enough to attract the notice of a powerful witch. No, she likely had power that Koschei wanted for himself. He would have crafted a spell to bind her power and the only way out for her was death. So when the legend tells of the girl transformed into a firebird and molting her beautiful plumage until she died, the feathers were really—”

“Her grace, or whatever combination of grace and soul nephilim have,” said Charlie. “So what you’re looking for out here is a power source.”

“Bingo,” replied Crowley, and was gratified when Charlie joined him in his search.

When he first arrived in Heaven, Crowley was so confused that he didn’t have time to form any assumptions about his afterlife before having the decision made for him. One minute he was petting wee little pup Juliet and the next minute Bobby Singer was explaining how he and his merry band of misfits had hacked Heaven. Crowley had to admit, spending eternity with like-minded individuals trying to make the afterlife a better place was much better than replaying his greatest hits forever.

They searched in silence for a few minutes before Charlie piped up again, “Are you sure this is the right forest? I mean, the legend isn’t all that specific, and we’ve been out here awhile, and angels could come after us at any time. We’re kinda fugitives, you know.”

Crowley sighed and moved to search a new area. “The man whose heaven this is comes here often to enjoy the memory of finding a firebird feather. He thought of it as something of a good luck charm, probably because he could somewhat sense the power it contained. We’re in the same area, so it’s our best shot at finding one without being noticed.”

“Okay, but what if we find the same feather _he_ found and then it’s not there for him to find next time?”

“Look, Red, I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve popped by Bobby’s heaven and made off with one of his whisky tumblers only to have another one show up again next time. Whatever magic lets us visit other heavens with those Enochian sigils lets us take things from them as well, you know that much. I presume every heaven resets itself when it loops back to the beginning again, so village hunter Sergei should find his feather right where it always was.”

Charlie’s shoulders slumped. “Alright, I’m out of arguments. Gimme a boost and I’ll climb a tree to see if I can see it from above. Anything colourful is bound to stand out in all this green.”

Lacing his fingers together, Crowley boosted her up into the branches of a towering oak tree, then resumed his search while she climbed. A part of him wished he still had his demonic powers; just in case she were unfortunate enough to fall, he could have caught her. No sense lamenting something that couldn’t be helped, though. On the subject of something that could be helped, he fished a piece of chalk out of his pocket to prepare for a quick escape, should the God Squad happen upon their location.

From high above came an excited little squeal, followed by, “Crowley! I found one! I found one, I found one!”

“Good,” he called back up. “Mark its location in your mind and get down here so we can go get it.”

“No, I found one _up here_. Looks like a bird took it to line its nest with.”

“Even better. Now get your arse down here so we can leave before we’re discovered.”

It took Charlie longer to climb down than it did for her to climb up, and Crowley was on the alert the entire time. Angels could come from any direction, so they would get very little warning if one decided to show up. When her feet hit the forest floor again, he let out the breath he had been holding. “Right then, let’s go.”

It took a minute to find the sort of trees that could take the place of the usual doorway. They ended up settling for a fallen tree that propped up against one of its fellows to make a sort of triangular space between them. Wasting no time, Crowley immediately set to work drawing their escape sigil on the tree trunk. Of course that was when he heard a rustling noise from the forest behind them. It could have easily been an animal, but somehow he didn’t think so.

While he drew, Charlie remained on her guard, scanning the forest around them for any signs of activity. At her sharp intake of breath, Crowley drew faster, or at least as fast as the rough bark would allow. A circle, a few curving lines, some squiggles, it was deceptively simple, but absolutely vital to get it right.

There. That was definitely a twig snapping underfoot. Crowley drew the last squiggle and tapped Charlie on the shoulder, gesturing for her to go through the arch of the trees first. Pressing her lips together tightly, she shook her head and pointed at him. With a sigh, he grabbed her shoulder and shoved her towards the arch. The look of betrayal on her face hurt him in a way he wasn’t used to, but all the same, it was something he never wanted to get used to.

Slow, casual footsteps traveled the forest behind him. Crowley gave the girl a couple of seconds to move out of the way, then jumped through after her. He only wished there was a way to erase the sigil off the tree to hide their destination.

There was no sense of transition. One moment he was in a peaceful Ukrainian forest and the next he stood in the Roadhouse bar just inside the front door. Charlie already had a stick of chalk in her hand and was reinforcing the bar’s warding on one side of the door, so Crowley took the other side. From behind him, Frank asked, “What is it? What’s wrong? Is it the angels?”

Crowley tried to be patient with Frank, he truly did, but he couldn’t help snapping, “Yes, it’s the bloody angels. They’re going to find our escape sigil and then they’re going to track it here unless we bloody well do something to stop them.” 

The change in Frank was truly remarkable. One moment he was sitting at the bar trying to follow angel radio on a laptop and the next he was on his feet drawing a knife from who-even-knew-where. Slicing open a gash in his arm, Frank drew a ward in blood against angels immediately over the door. He then repeated the action over every window. When he was done, he calmly sat back down on his bar stool and pressed a bar napkin over his wound.

Charlie, who had stopped drawing chalk sigils in order to watch Frank, took a cautious step towards the old conspiracy nut and said, “Uh, Frank? What the frak was that all about?”

Frank swiveled around and replied, “C’mon Buttercup, I know you know how to use your noodle. Blood magic is powerful stuff, but soul magic, now that’s where it’s at. See, we’re in Heaven, right? Means we’re essentially just dressed up souls now. So when I go slicing my arm open and using the sweet, sweet goo inside for fingerpainting…”

Nose wrinkling and brow furrowed, Charlie nodded slowly. “Ooookaaay, that’s a really gross mental image, but yeah, I catch your drift. But if you’ve known this whole time, why didn’t you say something? Why ’ve we been drawing all our warding in chalk and not...soul goo?”

Rolling his eyes, Frank shook his head. “Because, Sweet Cheeks, I just used a piece of my _soul_ there. It’s going to take time for that to regenerate. If the rest of you want to put yourselves out of commission for a while to do some more, go ahead, knock yourselves out. Literally.”

Knowing how Frank could get, Crowley said, “Noted. Warding appreciated. Now, any idea where Mullet Man has gotten to?”

Frank propped his elbow on the bar and carefully peeled away the napkin. Underneath was smooth, undamaged skin. Satisfied, he picked up his coffee cup. “Last I saw, Ash was in his room.” He was about to take a sip, then paused and added, “Oh, and if you don’t call him Doctor Badass, he probably won’t answer. Found that one out the fun way.”

With a nod of thanks, Crowley set off for the room at the back of the bar that belonged to Ash, Charlie following close behind. The hall outside Ash’s room was dingy white with hints of rust showing in the corners, illuminated by industrial cage lights mounted high on the walls. A wooden sign on the old wood door read, “DR. BADASS IS:” and a second sign dangling off the first read, “IN”.

Wasting no time, Crowley knocked on the door, then with a sigh, called out, “Doctor Badass? Really? Get your arse out here.”

The door opened a few inches to reveal a head to toe naked Ash, the door blocking strategic bits. “What’s the haps, compañero? You do know this is a pants-free zone, right?”

Some people would have undoubtedly been discomfited by the sight of so much naked skin. Charlie was taking great pains to look anywhere but at Ash. It was nothing Crowley hadn’t seen before, though. He spared a moment to look Ash up and down, then smirked. “I was unaware of the dress code in your personal chambers. I’ll be sure to remember it next time, but for the moment we have a situation.”

Shrugging minutely, Ash replied, “Alright then, gimme a few and I’ll be right out.”

The door closed and Charlie smiled weakly. “Well, that could’ve gone worse. I guess?” 

Crowley nodded. “Could’ve gone much worse, though I suppose from your point of view…”

Charlie grimaced and started walking back towards the public side of the bar. “Yeah, that isn’t exactly my flavour of choice. Like, ever.” 

With a shrug that Charlie didn’t see, Crowley followed her. “Your loss. I’ve honestly never understood how most of humanity obsesses over parts. Far as I’m concerned, anyone can be an entertaining roll in the hay if there’s a good mind in there.”

“Uh huh,” she replied without looking back. “Sure. I’m still not sleeping with you, Crowley.”

“I never said such a thing! _One_ time I flirted with you and you immediately informed me I wasn’t your type. Fine! I let it go. Still, you should’ve seen the lovely lady who hosted me before this fine specimen. She was—”

“Still no,” Charlie cut him off, stopping on the spot so she could face him. “It’s nothing personal, but you’ll always be a dude in my head. I mean, unless you’d rather be a woman, in which case, more power to you, but since you showed up in Heaven looking like that, I’m gonna guess you prefer that body and not any of the others you’ve inhabited, aaand I’m rambling again, aren’t I?”

Crowley smiled and indicated the seating area with a little head motion. “Why don’t you have a seat. I’ll go mix us up some cocktails. I think we’ve earned a little something.”

“Yeah, that actually sounds good,” replied Charlie.

Being the newest to join the Roadhouse’s motley crew, Crowley was still getting to know people’s preferences, but he knew Charlie was partial to rum drinks. With their conversation in the forest fresh in his mind, Crowley explored the bar’s inventory. Since it was Ash’s personal heaven they were inhabiting, there was only a bartender around if he happened to think of it — or if Ellen, Jo, or Bill came to visit, but they were out trying to track down a friend — so Crowley was on his own.

In the short amount of time they had been in the back, Frank had pillowed his head on his arms, apparently asleep on the bar. Heaven’s residents didn’t often need sleep, though it was possible to enjoy sleep for sleep’s sake, but powering the warding with his soul must have drained him enough to require at least a nap. A short distance from his head, the laptop continued to play angel radio at a subdued volume, the sound doing nothing to disturb Frank’s slumber.

Scanning the shelves, Crowley’s eyes alighted on spiced rum and butterscotch schnapps. From there it was only a few additional ingredients to a literary-inspired concoction. Topping it off with a dollop of whipped cream, Crowley carried the two large mugs to the table where an instantly-delighted Charlie waited.

She pulled her mug closer and peered through the glass at the bubbly amber drink, grinning all the while. “No way. Did you just make boozy butterbeer?”

“That depends,” replied Crowley. “Is it any good?”

Regarding her glass with a more serious expression, Charlie lifted it to drink. She ended up with a whipped cream moustache and more on the tip of her nose, the former of which she licked away, the latter going unnoticed. Eyes wide, she went back for a second sip before answering, “Hell yes, it’s good!”

With Charlie’s approval, Crowley was about to take a sip of his own, but then reconsidered and got up from his chair, returning shortly with a straw for each. Briefly stirring the whipped cream into his drink, he took a sip, marveling anew at the simple joy to be found in such a small thing. There were some things he missed about being a demon, but they were easily matched by the countless little things that made him happy in a way he had been incapable of as a demon.

Thus it was that Ash emerged from the back room — fully clothed in jeans and a vest — to find the both of them sighing contentedly over frothy drinks. Grabbing a beer from the bar fridge, he pulled up a chair and sat facing Crowley. “Tell me the situation ain’t frou frou drinks.”

Looking up from his drink, Crowley forced his mind back to the more important matters at hand. “Unfortunately not. First, I suppose I should ask for an update on our projects.”

Having dug a knife out of his pocket, Ash held up his index finger, then stabbed a hole in his beer can and drank from the side, popping the top once he had his beer in place so he could chug the contents. Finishing with a belch, he tossed the empty can on the table. 

“That’s better,” said Ash. “Right, so, as you know, Heaven ain’t exactly functioning on linear time. Our timeline in here ain’t necessarily the same as out there, so I dunno how everyone’s doing ‘til they get back here. That said, felt like you two were gone a few days. ‘Bout a half day after you left, Eileen an’ Rufus came back with a bronze bowl that was all sanctified n’ holy n’ shit, taken from some Roman ceremony. Then they grabbed Bobby n’ took off to hunt down a blessed knife. Said they were gonna try the Vikings.”

“We were only in that guy’s heaven for an hour, maybe less. Any luck figuring out if there’s any pattern to the time distortion?” Charlie asked.

“Me n’ Frank have been workin’ on that non-stop. No dice. I mean, it’s Heaven we’re talkin’ ‘bout here, so there’s probably a system or a pattern we ain’t figured out just yet, but for the moment, we’re stumped. I still wanna map out Heaven, but right now it’s still mostly random unless you happen to know who you’re lookin’ for.”

Crowley poked at his drink with his straw and indicated the laptop with a sideways nod of his head. “What about our feathered jailers? Anything new on the six o’clock news?”

“Aside from business as usual, they’re still all mighty interested in that Jack kid. Lotsa nephilim talk, but nobody’s got a plan to deal with him. Seems the kid’s hangin’ out with Sam n’ Dean. Good news for us, means the holy rollers ‘re mostly distracted. Doubt it means anythin’ good for the Winchesters, though.”

Lips compressed, Crowley shrugged. “If the angels go after Moose and Squirrel while they’re babysitting Satan Junior, I’ll be placing my bets on the home team. God gave angels many lovely qualities, but blind obedience doesn’t exactly encourage creative thought.”

“And on that subject,” Charlie said, “that little situation Crowley mentioned? Yeah, seems we took a bit too long out there. Pretty much the moment we got our hands on the Precious, we had the Ringwraiths on our tails. We’d probably all be back in our cells right now if it weren’t for Frank.”

As one, they all looked over at Frank, who was still dozing against the bar. Every so often, he snored softly, the noise mostly muffled by the screech of angel radio. 

“Frank’s got a brilliant mind hidden underneath all o’ that paranoia,” replied Ash. “But the feather you left for. You got it?” 

In response, Charlie reached into her jacket and withdrew a softly glowing iridescent feather. Resting on her palm, it was Crowley’s first look at a genuine firebird feather, though he had done his research. As far as firebird feathers went, it was on the small side, stretching just from Charlie’s wrist to the tips of her fingers.

“Dayum,” said Ash. “Hard to believe somethin’ so small can hold the kinda power we’re lookin’ for.”

Crowley smirked at Charlie. “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”

Charlie grinned in return. “Yeah, no underestimating the firebird.”

“Besides,” continued Crowley, “if my research is correct, just one of these feathers in the right hands could take down a fully-powered angel. It should be easily sufficient for our purposes.”

“Alright then, amigos,” said Ash. “Let’s put that beauty where she belongs.”

Standing, Ash threw his beer can in an overhand toss into the trash behind the bar. He punched the air when it went in, then followed after it to retrieve a wide bronze bowl from under the counter. Bringing it over, he held it out and waited until Charlie placed the feather inside the bowl, the mirrored bronze surface reflecting the feather’s shimmering colours.

Walking carefully, Ash returned the bowl now containing a feather to its place under the bar. He then grabbed another can of beer from the fridge and said, “Alright, who wants to rack up the balls and have a game? Gotta let the angels cool down a bit ‘fore anyone goes back out for more, so might as well have some fun around here.

Crowley looked at Charlie, who shrugged and got out of her chair, taking her butterbeer with her. “You’re on. If I win, you both acknowledge me as your queen and call me Your Highness from then on.”

Ash shot a pair of finger guns her way and replied, “I like the way you think. Crowley, you in?”

Pretending to think it over, Crowley took another sip of his butterbeer before answering, “You’re asking a former demon to join you in a game of Cutthroat? You’d better believe I’m in. And if I win, you’ll both go digging through your heavenly rolodexes for me. I know the shenanigans you computer nerds get up to, and I want in.”

Racking up the balls, Ash paused a moment, then nodded. “I can swing that. But when I beat you both, you’re gonna come with me on a PBR brewery tour. Those things ain’t nearly so much fun on your own.”

“That’s it? Deal,” replied Crowley. “I won’t even insist on a kiss.”

“You don’t need to, ‘cause you’re gonna lose,” Ash fired back.

“Enough trash talk, gentlemen,” said Charlie. “Save it for the game.”

Bringing his drink with him, Crowley grabbed a cue off the wall and chalked it. A chance to call someone else Your Highness and an excuse to spend time with people who actually wanted to spend time with him? Easiest wagers he’d ever agreed to.


	2. Chapter 2

With no way to know how much time had passed for anyone else, there was no way to know if their absent friends were safe or not until they returned. The time difference had never been something they could consistently measure, but never seemed to be greater than a few days, so they waited. Frank woke just long enough to glare at angel radio on the laptop, then carried himself off to one of the back rooms where Ash later informed them he again slept.

Perched on a bar stool, Ash monitored angel radio armed with a bowl of pretzels and a perpetually full fridge of beer. With no visible effort on his part, the jukebox lit up and selected a song from its collection. The other visitors to Ash’s personal heaven had come to terms with having no say in the music.

Seated once more at a table and sipping what Charlie called a Sonic Screwdriver, Crowley had come to appreciate his continued immunity to hangovers courtesy of Heaven. There had been no ill effects from alcohol when he was a demon, but he still retained hazy memories of drinking away hangovers during his mortal life, and they were on their third drink of the evening. Of course, evening was a relative term when time had no real meaning.

Thus it was that Crowley found himself slightly tipsy, in no fear of a hangover, and playing a dangerous game with an incredibly curious woman. Over the however long it had been since they met, Charlie had managed to weasel a few tidbits out of him here and there, but nothing of real consequence. After a single game of billiards and a few drinks, she knew too much.

“Alright,” said Charlie, “your turn. Truth or dare?”

There were only so many possible dares to be dared in the confines of the Roadhouse, and Crowley had no desire to do anything that would aggravate any of their temporary roommates, so again he replied, “Truth.”

Charlie clapped her hands. “Oh good! Okay, so, as you know, I’ve read the _Supernatural_ books, same as you. I mean, we both knew how the whole Heaven thing worked before we got here, even if it did take both of us an embarrassingly long time to figure out where we were, but whatever. What I wanna know is, when you made that deal with Bobby for Death’s location and you kissed him: business or pleasure?”

Of all the things she could have asked, that was possibly the last thing Crowley had expected. He felt his eyebrows lift in search of his hairline. “Both. Speaking from a purely strategic position, securing a claim over dear old Bobby’s soul bought me the leverage I needed to keep the lads from offing me precipitously. That being said, I won’t deny that it was a particularly good day at the office. Let me tell you, Your Highness, in my former line of work, I’ve kissed my fair share of rich, white homophobes in my day, and Bobby Singer is only one of those three. I’ve had better kisses over the course of my hundreds of years, but I’ve certainly had a lot worse.”

A hint of a smile lurked at the corners of Charlie’s mouth. “Hmm, interesting.”

Taking a sip of her drink, Charlie stared at him consideringly. Crowley lasted approximately five seconds before he snapped, “What do you mean, “interesting”?”

“Just, interesting, that’s all. Okay? Okay. Moving on. I choose dare.”

Wait, what? He had assumed Charlie would have come to the same conclusion regarding not rocking the boat. Apparently he was mistaken.

“Very well, Your Highness,” Crowley replied, “I dare you to choose another song on the jukebox. Something that’s not in the usual rotation.”

Charlie drew in a breath between her teeth. “Damn, that’s cold. Well, never let it be said that Charlie Bradbury wussed out.”

After being so thoroughly interrogated, Crowley was quite content to watch as Charlie casually sauntered over to the jukebox where she perused the softly lit song list. Digging into her pocket for change, she waited for Ash to grab another handful of pretzels before feeding her coins into the machine. Then, with a hesitant stab of her finger, she jabbed the buttons to select a song and walked back to the table immediately after.

Reclaiming her seat, Charlie polished off the rest of her Sonic Screwdriver, then stared expectantly at the jukebox. The last notes of the guitar solo at the end of “Freebird” trailed away, only to be replaced by “Purple Haze”, which was one of the most frequently played songs in the Roadhouse. Charlie’s eyes widened and she slumped in her chair. “Dammit, I pressed the buttons for something else, I really did.”

Crowley shook his head with a wry smile. “I saw. Nice try, Miss Granger, but I’ll be taking ten points from Gryffindor.”

“Hey,” she protested, “it’s not my fault you chose something impossible.”

Huffing a laugh, Crowley sipped his drink before responding, “Hardly. I dared you to choose another song on the jukebox. I never said it had to actually play. This is Ash’s personal heaven. You didn’t have a hope in Hell of changing anything in this place without permission, love, let alone the owner’s personal soundtrack. I just wanted to see you try.”

“That is just…cruel. But okay, I’ll take the win, which means it’s your turn to choose.”

On the one hand, Crowley was still wary of screwing things up with his new — dare he call them friends? On the other hand, their little game had already given Charlie too much information about him and he worried about what else she might ask. What if she wanted to know more about his actions as ruler of Hell or what sort of torture it took to break him? What if she asked about Dean? If he refused to answer a question, not only would it lessen him in her eyes, but he would have to default to a dare anyway if he wanted to avoid offending her by stopping the game.

Decision made, he narrowed his eyes, leaned forward on the table, and said, “Dare.”

Toying with her straw, Charlie pretended to think it over, but it was obvious she already knew what she was going to say. Finally, she leaned forward, mimicking Crowley’s position. “I dare you to teach me how to be a witch.”

Crowley sat up abruptly in his chair. “You’ve gotta be joking. You’re a total techie. Since when did you want to learn magic?”

“Since forever, duh. Hello, Hermione fan here. I’ve wanted to be a witch since I first read the first frakkin’ book. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with being a badass computer wizard, but if I could learn to mesh the two it’d be awesome. Heck, Willow did just fine.”

“You know, you could’ve just asked. You didn’t need this whole Truth or Dare nonsense to weasel it out of me. I would’ve agreed to teach you without all that.”

“I figured. But then I wouldn’t’ve gotten you to reveal all those juicy little tidbits about yourself. You’re a very private person, Crowley, and _some_ of us are interested in getting to know you, if you’d let us.”

His mouth opened to speak before he quite knew what to say, so he closed it again and considered her over another sip of his drink. Finally, he said, “There are three sorts of witches. There are natural born witches, like my thrice-damned mother, there are those who sell their souls for power, and then there are those like you and I who must resort to making the most out of whatever we can learn from books. Honestly, for all that Mother went on about being a natural born witch, I can’t see that it brought her anything but trouble.”

“I’m just as glad to be nothing like your mom. No offense intended, but I met her and I was totes not a fan.”

Crowley found himself smiling unexpectedly. “Knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Chuckling, Charlie lifted her glass to take another sip only to set it down again, disappointed. “Right. Forgot that was empty. I guess I’ll just…grab a Coke from the fridge. I think I’m done with booze for now.”

“While you’re up, grab some pens or pencils and whatever scrap paper you can find behind the bar.”

Already half out of her chair, Charlie paused. “What? Why?”

“Because you, Your Highness, are going to learn your alphabet. Can’t cast spells without knowing Latin, and I refuse to let you half arse your way through it.”

Charlie’s groan of dismay was every bit as satisfying as he had hoped for.

*

There were no clocks that accurately measured time in Heaven, and the clocks that did exist only measured the length of time covered by whichever memory they came from, so it was impossible to know how long they waited. Charlie learned the proper Latin inflections for individual letters and diphthongs, repeating the sounds over and over until they stuck. It was incredibly boring work, but to her credit, she never stopped.

Crowley had just begun to teach her the proper division of words into syllables when the bar’s front door flared white, depositing a rather disheveled Eileen inside the Roadhouse. Crowley and Charlie weren’t even out of their chairs before she had moved aside and Rufus came through, followed shortly after by Bobby. All three were out of breath, their clothes torn or sliced, and all bore various rapidly-healing wounds.

As soon as Bobby was through, Eileen had a piece of chalk in her hand and she set to work on another warding sigil. Without thinking, Crowley said, “It’s alright. Frank already strengthened the warding with his soul. Can’t get much stronger than that.”

It wasn’t until Rufus tapped Eileen on the shoulder and repeated Crowley’s words in sign language that Crowley remembered she couldn’t hear him. Chagrined, he moved to point out the new sigil, softly glowing white over the door. He then turned to face Eileen directly and signed as he spoke, “It’s soul magic. Should keep them out for awhile.”

The relief in all three was visible in the slump of their shoulders. Rufus exhaled a sigh of relief and said, “After that, I could use a drink. That is, if you haven’t drank all the good stuff, Crowley.”

Clapping a hand over his heart, Crowley donned his best offended expression. “I’m hurt by that accusation. I’ll have you know, Charlie and I have been mixing cocktails since we got back. Your Johnnie Blue is perfectly safe.”

Bobby eyed the soul sigil, nodded once, and said, “Well then, I’d say we’ve earned the right to kick back an’ have us a drink or two.”

Smiling, Eileen replied, “Try to keep up, old man.” She then stopped as if a thought occurred to her. Reaching inside her jacket, she withdrew a steel knife, the handle inlaid with silver and copper with runes etched into the blade. Holding it balanced on her palms, she asked, “Before we get to that, where does this go?”

Eyes wide, Charlie hovered a hand over the knife as if asking permission. When Eileen nodded, Charlie picked up the knife and turned it over, testing its balance. “I can’t believe you guys pulled it off. That’s awesome!”

“Quite,” agreed Crowley. “Your Highness, why don’t you put that little fellow with his friends behind the bar so they can get to know one another.”

“Your Highness?” Bobby frowned, then understanding bloomed in his face. “Aw hell, she beat you in a game, didn’t she.”

It wasn’t a question, but all the same, Crowley nodded. “It was close, though. We each only had one ball left on the table, but then Her Highness managed to sink us both.”

“Both?” asked Bobby. “Ash, don’t tell me she beat you, too.”

Without looking away from his laptop, Ash shrugged, gave a thumbs up and said, “Uh huh.”

From behind the bar, Charlie grinned. “I took down both of these bitches like a boss.”

Eileen crossed the room just so she could high five Charlie, then grabbed herself a beer from the bar fridge, which seemed to release the others to do the same. Rufus retrieved his bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label from the top shelf, Bobby grabbed a couple of beers for himself, and Charlie perused the remaining alcohol. Waiting until the others had claimed their booze of choice, Crowley walked up to Charlie and said, “Beg your pardon, Your Highness, but I do believe it’s my turn back there. Unless, that is, you’re exercising your royal prerogative to claim that right.”

“Oh,” said Charlie, “right. That’s, uh…. Oh! Yeah, you go ahead and do that, and I’ll go and, uh, tell the others about how our mission went.”

Charlie’s lies were more transparent than a window, but they were always for the sake of good things, so Crowley let it slide. With a little shooing motion of his hand, he waved her off to the table where the other three had settled, then browsed the bar’s stock again, which was constantly being refreshed to the state in which it had been during Ash’s original memory of it.

After due consideration, Crowley interrupted storytime. “My apologies for the interruption, but which would you prefer, Your Highness? Is it a Dark and Stormy night or are you more in the mood for a Red Wedding Spiked Punch?”

The look on Charlie’s face was gratifyingly intrigued. “Oooohh, I do enjoy a good Dark and Stormy, but I’ve never had a Red Wedding Spiked Punch, so let’s go with that.”

With a nod, Crowley waved her back to her tale and set to work on his concoction. He poured tequila and Merlot into the glass, then honey syrup, fresh ginger, nutmeg, and cinnamon. After giving it a good stir, he then dug out a double old fashioned glass, filled it with ice and poured in the drink. Tasting the finished cocktail, he smiled to himself and made one for Charlie.

As he mixed, he thought. After two close calls, it would have been dangerous to send out another expedition for spell components so soon. They would have to either stay at the Roadhouse, or return to their own personal heavens for awhile until the angels were distracted by something else. Crowley had no desire to return to his own heaven to be reminded of all the things he had lost and everything he had never even had.

Staring into the swirling red drink, it was easy to get lost in recollection. He had yet to explore all of his heaven memories, but he knew some. Working together with the Winchesters on a case while detoxing off human blood, hearing Dean explain the meaning of the word family and how it applied to Crowley, road tripping with Castiel—the memories were varied but shared a theme; Crowley’s best memories were when he felt most wanted.

The swirling slowed and became a gently rotating pool, releasing him from its depths. The memories were the happy lies he had told himself in the hopes of finding some form of acceptance somewhere in that cruel world. But no one had wanted to be friends with a demon, not his fellow demons who despised him, not the Winchesters who never saw him as more than another monster, and certainly not Castiel who was literally created to kill his kind.

Charlie’s voice startled him out of his jaunt down memory lane. “Hey, you know the Red Wedding only took one episode, right?”

Plastering a smile back on his face, Crowley poured the second drink into its own glass with ice, then carried both drinks to the table where the other four waited. He set Charlie’s down before her and took a sip of his own before replying, “Apologies, Your Highness. I was…elsewhere.”

Her expression softened. “Yeah, I know how that is.”

“So, as I was saying,” said Eileen, “our mission was a success, but we attracted a lot of attention. I don’t think it would be safe for any of us to do much travelling for the next little while.”

Rufus raised his glass and replied, “I don’t know about you all, but I am more than content to stay right where I am with Johnnie.”

Eileen smirked and touched her beer to his glass. “There are worse places to be.”

“Well,” said Bobby, “much as I’ve enjoyed yer company, I think me ‘n my recliner ‘ve got a date.”

Unsure of his own plans, Crowley turned to Charlie, who was sipping her drink, and asked, “Well, Your Highness? How do you plan to spend our unintentional hiatus?”

“I was thinking I’d pop in on one of my Bunker memories with Sam and Dean. You know, raid their library for books on Latin. Maybe… witchcraft?”

“Only if you don’t plan on returning straight away. The whole point of this is to let them think we’re done, so we can’t be going back and forth all willy nilly.”

“Oh that’s no problem,” replied Charlie. “I could gladly spend some more time with Sam and Dean. Those guys are like my brothers. _Were_ like my brothers. Are? Man, being dead makes everything so complicated.”

“What about you, Crowley?” asked Rufus. “Where are you gonna hole up until this all blows over?”

And wasn’t that just the million dollar question? Crowley was in no hurry to rush back to his own memories. Given how one-sided his relationships had always been, his only untarnished memory would have been playing with Juliet, and as much as he cared about his ‘hound, playing fetch would eventually grow dull. Staying at the Roadhouse was an option, but was he even wanted? If his companions tired of him, as everyone inevitably did, there was nothing to do without interacting with them, and nowhere to retreat if they wanted to be rid of him.

Uncertain of his decision, he stalled for time. “I’m not entirely sure. No doubt Frank will wake from his soul magic hangover before long to resume his place as resident expert on the subject of everything. And while I, for one, am glad of that extra level of protection, I doubt having me around will do much for the general air of conviviality around here. Unfortunately, Frank still doesn’t seem too inclined to trust a former demon.”

While it was all true, it wasn’t the whole truth, and Crowley knew it. Frank trusted him more than he trusted the angels. He just so happened to have a hard time trusting anyone. Still, Crowley had no qualms using Frank’s paranoia as an excuse to keep himself from being in close quarters with the others for an extended period of time in order to avoid wearing out his welcome.

He was about to say he’d go spend some time with Juliet and maybe visit some past memories of the Winchesters when Bobby said, “So then, why don’t you come hit up some o’ my greatest hits? I mean, it ain’t no Plaza Hotel or nothin’, but I got room t’ spare an’ a damn good library.”

It was such an unexpected offer that Crowley was rendered speechless, paralyzed with indecision. Absently, he registered that his mouth had fallen open but he had no words to speak. His brain was torn between accepting out of sheer gratitude or declining for fear of bodging the whole thing.

Fortunately, Charlie decided to be his words. “Stop getting in your own way, Crowley. Yes, he accepts.”

Casting his new pupil a scowl, Crowley drew in a deep breath and addressed Bobby with a smile. “I would be honoured to stay in your home for however long this lasts. I will, of course, understand if you change your mind.”

Bobby rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Cursed to be forever surrounded by idjits. Thought you were the smart one, but I guess not. I ain’t gonna change my damn mind, you dolt. Now shut up an’ drink so we can get goin’.”

“Far be it from me to argue such eloquent words,” replied Crowley with a smirk, and he sipped his drink.

Cutting off any further discussion, Charlie piped up, “Crowley, you’ve gotta tell me what’s in this. It’s totes delish!”

“I think not. A girl’s gotta have _some_ secrets.”

Charlie sighed. “Fine. But if you won’t share your secrets, you get to play bartender when you get back, ‘cause everyone seriously needs to try this biz.”

After assuring Charlie that yes, he would play bartender for their reunion, they finished their drinks and went their separate ways. As she was about to leave, Charlie punched Crowley’s shoulder and said, “Peace out, bitches!”

She was already gone before he had the chance to answer. Rubbing his shoulder, Crowley allowed Bobby to answer the farewells from Ash, Eileen, and Rufus, preferring instead to wait until they were done to give a little wave goodbye immediately before crossing through the door. He only hoped he wasn’t making the worst mistake of his afterlife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drink recipe time!
> 
> [Sonic Screwdriver](http://www.cocktailsbytheboot.com/2015/04/dissecting-cocktail-sonic-screwdriver.html). Charlie opted for the blue version, which is listed on that site as the Companion Drink.  
> [Red Wedding Spiked Punch](https://www.pastemagazine.com/blogs/lists/2014/04/10-great-game-of-thrones-themed-cocktails.html) I haven't tried either of these, but if you do, please let me know. 
> 
> Drink responsibly.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley had been a visitor to Bobby’s heaven many times. His first visit had been shortly before learning the truth about his afterlife — a concept he still struggled with at times — but each subsequent visit had been so Crowley could read Bobby’s books. It didn’t hurt that reading at Bobby’s house also came with a bottle of the good stuff, courtesy of a long ago wager with Rufus. Bobby always camped out in his comfortable chair with a book and a glass of something while Crowley either cleared off the writing desk or sprawled out on the big red sofa.

Expecting more of the same, he stopped short when he entered to find Sam and Dean on the sofa, a pair of DVDs on the table in front of them. Both looked better than Crowley remembered seeing them in quite some time, as if the weight of the world no longer rested on their shoulders. Rather than risk the boys noticing him, Crowley stayed stock still and silent, so it was hardly a surprise when Bobby bumped into him, forcing him to stumble forward.

Glancing up, Crowley fully expected the Winchesters to have drawn weapons on him, but instead found them having a friendly argument. He couldn’t help but listen to Sam trying to lay out criteria for the debate while Dean bowled over the details, adamant that survival was the only criteria and it came down to who was the bigger badass. Crowley hadn’t even bothered to stand up again when Dean turned to Bobby and asked, “Bobby, will you please tell Sam that Chuck Norris could kick Jet Li’s ass?”

Bobby leaned down to offer Crowley a hand getting up and said, “Sorry ‘bout that. Guess I was feelin’ nostalgic.”

Accepting the offered hand, Crowley got to his feet, still staring at the brothers. “Not a problem,” he said, taking in the good-natured debate between two of his favourite people. His presence was entirely ignored, so he crossed the room and picked up one of the DVDs being debated. “I never saw this one.”

Crowley had never been a fan of action hero movies and he didn’t expect that to change, but he also didn’t intend to pay much attention to the screen. Bobby gave him an odd look, then turned and strode off towards the kitchen. In Crowley’s experience, doors in Heaven meant switching to a different memory, so he watched the brothers and waited for the memory to change. Dean called after Bobby’s retreating form to request a beer. The kitchen door swung on its hinges and the scene played on.

Returning the DVD to its place on the table, Crowley gave the Winchesters one last look, then followed Bobby to the kitchen. A bowl sat ready on the kitchen counter while Bobby shook a covered pot back and forth across the stovetop. From the other room, Crowley could just make out the sound of the ongoing sibling rivalry.

Without taking his attention off the pot on the stove, Bobby said, “Grab some beers from the fridge for me, why don’tcha? An’ whatever drink suits your fancy. You’ve been here enough. Make yourself at home.”

Still half expecting the memory to change at any moment, Crowley did as he was asked. Three beers from the fridge joined the bottle of Johnnie Blue from Rufus that always ended up refilled every time he returned. The pot on the stove made popping sounds, filling the air with the distinctly earthy smell of popcorn and hot oil. It was a smell Crowley had never properly smelled before so he happily leaned against the counter and zoned out to the sound of popping kernels.

He must have zoned out more deeply than expected, because in what seemed like no time at all — even accounting for Heaven’s odd distortions — Bobby had a full bowl of popcorn which he was sprinkling with salt. Food and drink acquired, Bobby returned to the living room with the popcorn, pausing at the door to give Crowley an invitation to follow with a little jerk of his head.

Gathering up the beers and whisky, Crowley followed Bobby to the living room where the argument had shifted from theoretical combat to appropriate movie snacks. For all that he appreciated the smell of the popcorn and was eager to try it, he was disappointed that Sam apparently failed to procure Dean’s requested liquorice. That had always been Crowley’s favourite candy during his mortal life and he hadn’t had any in centuries.

Dean sat back down on the sofa with the remote control while Sam, on the other end of the sofa, had already stuffed his mouth with popcorn. Bobby reclaimed his comfy chair, leaving Crowley to drag the hard wooden chair over from the writing desk. It still felt bizarre to move things with his hands — on occasion he found himself snapping his fingers before his mind caught up — but he managed without knocking into anything, at least.

Setting his chair near Sam’s side of the sofa, right next to the popcorn, allowed Crowley a clear view and unobstructed access to the snacks. More importantly, he could easily see both brothers in his peripheral vision and listen to their banter. It was the first time in a very long time he had seen them so unguarded, and the first time ever with him in the room. Unfortunately it was because they weren’t really there.

He knew, of course. When the Ellen from Ash’s memories tended bar at the Roadhouse, only Ash could interact with her. The Winchesters were alive and well and had Castiel to look after them, no doubt having drained Lucifer’s spawn of his magic. They were probably living out the most ridiculous version of _Three Men and a Baby_ never released on home video, but Crowley rested easy in his afterlife knowing he had secured that for them.

Still, when he watched a younger, more carefree Dean dump an entire bag of M&Ms into the bowl of popcorn, it was easy to forget it wasn’t real. Sam grimaced and called his brother a jerk for “ruining” the popcorn. Dean called Sam a bitch in return and suggested that no one was forcing him to eat it. Never one to pass up a new experience, Crowley claimed a handful of the newly-enhanced popcorn for himself and continued to ignore the movie.

Despite being seated immediately opposite Bobby, Crowley never met his eyes. He sat with his body facing the television and his gaze focused somewhere beyond it, ostensibly watching the movie but really watching the Winchesters. He was convinced he had Bobby fooled until probably a half hour into the movie when Bobby said, “I know. I miss ‘em, too.”

For the first time since the kitchen, Crowley looked at Bobby, only to see that trying to disguise his intentions had been pointless. Bobby wasn’t watching the movie at all — had probably never been watching it to begin with — and had instead turned his chair to face Sam and Dean directly. The corners of his mouth curved up ever so slightly, his ever-present frown gone for once.

When it became apparent he wasn’t going to speak, Bobby continued, “You knew ‘em for what? Seven? Eight years? You gotta have at least one decent memory of ‘em. So why ya so damn starved to see mine?”

Closing his eyes, Crowley took a deep breath and exhaled before answering. “They never… cared about me half as much as I did for them. To them, I was nothing more than a demon, never to be trusted. A tool to be used and discarded. Still, they were the best thing that ever happened to me.” Thinking of the time he’d been handcuffed and detoxing in the Bunker, asked to help hunt down the First Blade, he smiled and added, “I’d show you my highlights reel, but we’re under somewhat of a travel embargo at the moment.”

Bobby looked from Sam and Dean to Crowley, then gave a little nod. “Right. This ain’t helpin’ nothin’. C’mon, I think I know a better way to pass the time than dwellin’ on who we’re missin’.”

Polishing off one last handful of M&M popcorn, Crowley took the bottle of Scotch in his other hand and got up. On the sofa, Dean exclaimed over something on screen and Sam shushed him, prompting Dean to toss a handful of popcorn at his brother, after which he loudly proclaimed the superiority of Chuck Norris to all of the other actors. Crowley understood why it was one of Bobby’s greatest hits.

Bobby waited at the open front door. When his eyes alighted on the bottle, he huffed a laugh and said, “That should make things interesting.”

Frowning, Crowley asked, “Just where are you taking us, Robert?”

“Somewhere I never took those boys,” Bobby replied.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he clapped a hand to Crowley’s shoulder and pushed him out the door. Just as with the borders between different heavens, there was no sensation of movement between one heaven memory and the next. One moment, Crowley was stumbling out Bobby’s front door, and the next, he stood in a warm, welcoming salon. One wall was lined with racks of an entire rainbow of nail polish and the opposite side of the room was home to some of the most comfortable-looking chairs Crowley had ever seen.

Behind the front desk stood an attractive woman who looked to be in her early thirties who immediately looked up upon Crowley’s arrival. Fortunately, he remembered to step forward, so Bobby didn’t bump into him, but he was still staring, stunned, when the woman said, “Good day to you, and welcome to Beauty Lounge. Do you have an appointment, gentlemen?”

Crowley spun around to face Bobby. “What part of 'not safe to travel' was so hard for you to grasp? I thought you were taking me to another of your heaven memories, not to someone else’s heaven. Are you _trying_ to get us both killed?”

For his part, Bobby wore a smug, self-satisfied smile. “You ‘bout done? This _is_ one o’ my personal memories, dickhead. It also happens to be the only memory I bothered to modify after Ash figured out how. Seems anythin’s possible with the right Enochian sigils. I ain’t gonna go makin’ my boys inta fancy schmancy holograms or nothin’, but I doubt the ladies here ‘d mind if they knew.”

It called into question Heaven’s defining characteristics. It was also sorely tempting and Crowley had to force himself to think about Bobby’s words. With a sigil like that, it would have been technically possible for him to join Sam and Dean’s movie shenanigans as an active participant, not a spectator. It also would have been wrong. It wouldn’t have been either of them, not truly, and it would have felt like mind control.

The ladies at the nail salon, however, were only doing their jobs as Bobby remembered them doing. The only difference was that they were able to see Crowley and interact with him as another client. Crowley reluctantly concluded that Bobby had been right to keep such a sigil from him until that moment.

“My bad,” said Crowley. “You must admit, it was a reasonable assumption on my part. But if this is all on the up and up, and it’s one of your warm and fuzzies, then what’s on the agenda? You don’t strike me as the sort to go in for French tips.”

Bobby smirked and bent down to unlace his boots. “Ever had a pedicure?”

A few minutes later, Crowley was seated in an extraordinarily comfortable chair which vibrated to massage. A warm towel was wrapped around his neck and his feet soaked in a tub of water just short of too hot. In the chair beside his, Bobby enjoyed the same treatment. Both held champagne glasses, but in lieu of champagne, Crowley’s was filled with the Blue Label Scotch which he had brought along. It wasn’t the best way to enjoy Scotch, but he wasn’t about to complain.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/139143410@N06/39157162952/in/album-72157688571094442/)

With his eyes closed, Bobby sipped his champagne and wiggled his toes in the water. Without looking over, he said, “So, fancy bastard like you, thought you woulda gone straight for the champagne. You so set in yer ways you ain’t willin’ to try somethin’ different for once?”

If he weren’t so comfortable, Crowley might have gotten up to properly take offense to that. “You know full well that Charlie and I were drinking each other’s concoctions back at the Roadhouse earlier. Just because I don’t feel like sampling whatever passes for second rate champagne here doesn’t mean I have something against all champagnes. I merely have a refined palate.”

“Refined, my ass,” replied Bobby. “You didn’t even smell it before decidin’ you didn’t want it. Y’ain’t a demon no more. If it were me, I’d be tryin’ every damn thing I could. You ask me, I think yer afraid to give up that high an’ mighty image o’ yours.”

He was right, of course. Crowley had spent the first decade of his post-torture demonic life cultivating the perfect image. The expensive suits, the proper accent, the refined manner, the name, all designed to give the impression of elegant malice. First impressions were everything, especially among demons with their long memories and even longer lives. Crowley had been Crowley much longer than he’d ever been Fergus, and he had no desire to return to that, but what was he if the image he had chosen no longer fit?

Pointedly not answering the accusation, Crowley said, “It wouldn’t hurt you to perhaps raise your standards a little. How long did this three hundred dollar bottle of Scotch sit gathering dust in your study?”

Bobby took a sip of his champagne, then replied, “Ain’t me we’re talkin’ ‘bout. But hey, you go ahead an’ hold on to those walls. I’ll chip ‘em down eventually. Nothin’ like eternity to put things into perspective.”

Blessedly, that was the moment the aestheticians returned, bearing the tools of their trade. Crowley was more than content to sit in silence while the ladies laid out clippers, files, pumice stones, and scented lotions. Taking another sip of Scotch from the wrong type of glass, he tried not to think about Bobby’s words and failed miserably.

The pumice stone scrubbed away the dead skin off his feet. Setting his glass to the side, Crowley allowed his eyes to slip shut so he could sort through his thoughts since he was apparently unable to shut off his brain. He wasn’t a demon anymore, true, but he most certainly wasn’t Fergus. That abusive, weak-willed, pathetic failure of a human was a disappointment to anyone he had ever known. After a lifetime of failure, it had been a relief to be granted a fresh start.

Much better to be Crowley. But who was Crowley if he wasn’t a demon? If he stripped away his carefully cultivated image, what would remain to separate Crowley from Fergus?

The pumice stone was set aside, and gentle but firm hands set to work on trimming and shaping his toenails. The sharp sound of the nail clippers intruded on his thoughts, disrupting his introspection. He felt unsettled, on the edge of a thought which refused to make itself clear. In the absence of any further thought, his mind drifted along the path of the soothing music which did exactly what it was intended to do.

He absently noted when the clipping became filing, but he was done thinking. The thought escaped him and he let it go. He was there to relax, so relax he would. It wasn’t his first pedicure — not by a long shot — but it was his first as a human, even if he didn’t technically have a mortal form, and the difference between inhabiting a body and _belonging_ in a body was more pronounced with physical contact. Adjusting to one’s afterlife was difficult enough without having to adjust to becoming a new species as well, but he would have been content to accept it all without question if he had memories like Bobby’s pedicure.

When the filing was done, he heard what he could only assume was the lotion being squeezed from its bottle. It must have been pre-warmed, because there was no shock of cold when it touched his skin, only the absolutely divine sensation of strong fingers rubbing lotion into his foot, between his toes, and up his calf. If he hadn’t already abandoned the thought, it would have been a lost cause. His entire focus narrowed to the area being massaged until his legs felt like jelly, first one and then the other.

It felt like a loss when the hands left his leg. The woman who owned the skilled hands interrupted his bliss to ask, “Would you like to have your toenails painted?”

Painted toenails meant not having to get up. Not getting up seemed like the perfect idea. Crowley made a soft sound of assent, and when asked which colour, without thinking, he said, “Red.”

In the chair beside his, Bobby chuckled and said, “I’m good, thanks.”

Though she was done massaging Crowley’s feet, every touch thereafter was like a remote echo, reminding his feet that they were relaxed. It wasn’t until his nails were painted and the polish was drying that he finally opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Bobby watching him with an amused smirk on his face.

“What?” asked Crowley.

Still smiling, Bobby shook his head and said, “Nothin’. Just a shame they don’t match your eyes no more.”

“Put a sock it in, Robert,” Crowley replied. “You only wish you looked half as good.”

Wiping the smile off his face, Bobby held up both hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgement here. Judgin’ ain’t my style. Just sayin’, maybe a new colour might suit ya better next time?”

Biting back a retort, Crowley silently conceded the point. He wasn’t a demon and he didn’t want to be treated like one. But if he didn’t want to be treated like a demon, he needed to stop thinking like one, which meant at least trying to let go of some of his old ways. His appearance had always been carefully chosen. Perhaps it was time to loosen up a bit and consider trying to fit in with his new crew.

“In that case,” Crowley said, “do you think it might be possible to request a new paint job?”

Bobby indicated the door with his thumb. “Tell ya what. How ‘bout you grab your shoes an’ we’ll start over again.”

It struck Crowley then that they had as much time as they wanted and nothing they needed to do. A pedicure do-over sounded like a fantastic idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the memory Crowley stumbled into was Bobby's last dying memory in s07e10 Death's Door.


	4. Chapter 4

Without days or nights to track, Crowley quickly lost count of how long he had been in Bobby’s heaven. For the most part, Crowley tried to stay out of the way, so he spent most of his time reading through Bobby’s collection of books, taking note of anything useful on the subject of witchcraft or Latin. He set aside anything promising, and soon had a decent-sized stack of books he could assign as homework to Charlie.

When he wasn’t reading, Crowley could be found with a notepad and pencil, sketching drawings which he refused to show to Bobby. For reference, he used magazines, the TV (whenever it was on), and anyone who ever showed up in Bobby’s heaven. He’d had a thought which he needed to explore, but he couldn’t do anything about it until he could access his own heaven. Until then, sketches would do.

Around the time cabin fever started to kick in, Crowley decided he was as satisfied with his sketches as he was likely to get. Gathering them up, he hesitated, as he had every time he had considered showing them to Bobby. They were done, though, and it had been Bobby’s words that had sparked his thoughts, so, drawings in hand, Crowley marched off to track him down.

As he so often did, Crowley found Bobby in his most comfortable chair, reading. Sometimes it was a book of ancient myths and legends, sometimes it was a Tori Spelling magazine; a glance at the cover revealed that day’s reading was a battered old copy of Vonnegut’s _Slaughterhouse-Five_.

Stopping a few paces away, Crowley cleared his throat. When Bobby looked up, Crowley nodded at the book. “Not your usual form of entertainment.”

Bobby marked his page and set the book on his side table. “Somethin’ Dean left here by accident once.” Frowning slightly, he added, “Those what you keep hidin’ from me?”

With a purely facial shrug, Crowley handed over the small stack of drawings. “They weren’t done then. They are now.”

Flipping through the drawings, Bobby paused to get a better look at one, then asked, “There a reason I’m lookin’ at your self-portraits? Should I be puttin’ these on the fridge? ‘Cause I ain’t got enough magnets for that.”

“No, you bloody idiot,” Crowley snapped. “This was your idea. You said I should consider a new image. It’s not like I can simply pop on down to the local Hunters’ Outfitters Supply Outlet. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re rather tied down here at the moment, and not in the fun way.”

“In the interest of domestic tranquility, I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” replied Bobby. “These ain’t half bad. Where’d you learn to draw like this?”

“I was a tailor,” said Crowley. “You know that. Do you think clothing designs spring up out of thin air? That you could simply lay out a piece of fabric and cut it into shapes, freehand? In one of my vaults, there’s a book full of my old designs. Over the years, I’ve kept my hand in, designing a piece here or there for my tailor to make for me. The point is not my skill, but how does it look?”

Bobby shrugged and pointed at the drawing on top. “This one. No idea where you’re gonna get whatcha need for it, but this one looks good. Ain’t too stuffy, but it’s still somehow you, y’know?”

Crowley nodded. “I rather suspected as much. I know where I can lay hands on most of it, once I can access my own heaven, but… you wouldn’t happen to know anyone with access to memories of sewing supplies or a tailor, would you?”

*

Sewing supplies were a simple matter. Bobby had never ventured into memories of his wife while Crowley was around, but he agreed to allow it just once so Crowley could raid her sewing kit. After they passed through the door into a cleaner, more welcoming home, Crowley took one look at the TV perfect blonde woman in her floral print dress, then averted his eyes to allow Bobby at least the illusion of privacy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bobby sweep his wife into his arms. Crowley hastened his steps to the master bedroom where he easily located the sturdy wooden box he had been told he would find there. Unfolding the box to either side opened up its layered compartments, revealing the promised sewing supplies. Closing it back up, he lifted the box by its handle and carried the entire thing away.

Halfway down the stairs, Crowley froze. Bobby had an arm wrapped around his wife while she rested her head against his chest, his free hand combing through her hair. It was Bobby as Crowley had never seen him and he was loathe to disturb the moment. Inevitably, though, Bobby looked up and saw Crowley standing there.

Bobby’s shoulders slumped, but he smiled and kissed the top of his wife’s head. “Karen, I just gotta grab somethin’ outta the truck. I’ll be right back.”

He stepped away, but she continued to lean as if he were still there, somehow supported by empty air. The result would have been comical if it wasn’t so disturbing. Crowley wasted no time in descending the stairs, crossing the floor to where Bobby waited at the front door.

“I would have waited, you know,” said Crowley. “I still can, I don’t mind. Take all the time you need.”

Shaking his head, Bobby replied, “Naw. It ain’t her, not really. Might see ‘bout trackin’ her down someday, but for now let’s just go.”

With a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, Bobby opened the door and brought them back to the memory with which Crowley was most familiar. Once they were both through the door, Bobby immediately pulled a piece of chalk out of his pocket and drew a sigil on the wall, then repeated it on each of the walls of the room. It took a moment for Crowley’s unreliable human memory to place it, but when he finally recognized it, he said, “Was this room not anchored before this moment? Has this memory been resetting this entire time?”

“Thought you woulda figured that out when that bottle from Rufus kept refillin’.”

“But, I had books set aside. And my drawings! I worked hard on those.”

“Hey, I _asked_ if you wanted me to put ‘em on the fridge. Now quit yer whinin’. This means I got a finite supply o’ liquor ‘til you get your new duds fixed up.”

“About that,” said Crowley. “We never sorted out how long we’d stay put. Round about how long do you reckon it’ll take for our jailers to stand down?”

Bobby shrugged. “Hell if I know. Maybe they already have, an’ maybe they never will. I ain’t exactly done this before.”

It was no more than Crowley had expected, but hearing it helped him to decide. He had already imposed on Bobby’s hospitality for long enough, not to mention he had dredged up memories of Bobby’s beloved wife, all for the sake of some needles and thread. Crowley had asked too much.

Setting the sewing kit off to one side, he said, “Right then. Don’t suppose they’ll take offense if I go back to where I’m supposed to be, but on the off chance I don’t return, it won’t have been a voluntary decision. You’ve been a marvellous host, and I hope I get to return the favour some time.”

He could see it in Bobby’s eyes, the great bloody softie was going to try to talk him out of it, so Crowley smiled thinly and added, “Try not to run out of booze before I get back.”

“Try not to— you damn idjit! Don’t make me hafta come break you out again.”

Ignoring Bobby’s protests, Crowley quickly sketched the sigil for his own heaven on Bobby’s front door. It was one of the first of Heaven’s sigils he had memorized, right after the one for the Roadhouse, so it was finished quickly. 

He opened the door and was about to step through when Bobby said, “You don’t need to do this right now. C’mon back an’ we’ll see what I got in my closet you can alter.”

Crowley pretended to consider it, but the moment Bobby took a half step back, Crowley crossed through the door and into his own heaven, focusing hard on the memory he wanted. He knew, in all honesty, that Bobby would likely close the door and go back to his Tori Spelling magazines, but on the off chance he decided to follow, there would be a significant delay between them thanks to Heaven’s temporal oddities.

As always, there was nothing between one step and the next. Near as his metaphysical brain could tell, the passage from one heaven to another was instant and seamless. One foot passed through Bobby’s front door, and then he was seated on a blanket-covered leather sofa, wearing only a borrowed robe. Dean Winchester’s head was pillowed on his lap, another blanket covering Dean from the neck down, but Crowley knew there were no clothes under that blanket.

The memory took hold and Crowley had to fight the urge to card his fingers through Dean’s hair. Birds twittered and insects rustled outside the hunting cabin where they had spent an entertaining evening with identical triplets. It would have been so easy to allow himself to be seduced by the illusion of tranquility as he had during the original, if only he weren’t on a strict timeline. With a purely internal sigh, Crowley gently lifted Dean’s head off his leg, slid out from under him, and left a decorative pillow in his place. He could have simply gotten up without any of that, leaving Dean’s head resting on thin air, but it wouldn’t have felt right.

He knew exactly what he needed and where to find it. Ascending the stairs, Crowley entered the guest bedroom, resisting the urge to tiptoe. The two men in the bed slept like the dead, one on his side facing the wall, and one flat on his back and snoring. Without his enhanced demonic senses, Crowley could no longer tell which was Bear and which was Sir Knight — as he had nicknamed them — but he had his suspicions based on the brief time he had known them; they occupied more than one of his heaven memories.

Wasting no time, Crowley rummaged through the chest of drawers until he found what he sought. Unsure of the fit, he took both pairs of tan cargo trousers, just in case he needed to add material from one to the other. Not for the first or last time, he wished Heaven could have provided him a memory of his old shop, but of course, none of those memories were all that pleasant.

Trousers in hand, he crossed the hall to the master bedroom where Sparky had slept. The bed was unmade, its occupant already in the shower. If memory served, he didn’t take long in the shower, so Crowley moved quickly to snatch up several different pairs of socks from his drawer. More importantly, he then grabbed his and most of Dean’s clothing, which had been neatly folded and left atop the chest of drawers. Bless Sparky for his compulsive neatness.

Having acquired nearly everything he came for, he paused to don a pair of his pilfered socks. Thick and wooly, they were nothing like the thin dress socks he had worn for an age, and still better quality than the miserable things he’d had as Fergus. He then scooped up the rest of his acquisitions again and hastened back down the stairs, past where Dean continued to doze on the sofa, straight to the front door.

Just as he remembered, there was a line of hiking boots and a single pair of black loafers beside the door. Comparing his shoes with the various pairs of boots, it was a good thing he’d chosen the thickest socks from the drawer. Dean’s boots were the smallest of the four pairs and still looked about a size bigger than Crowley’s shoes. As he was examining the boots, Sparky came down the stairs, pausing to give past-Crowley his phone back before heading to the kitchen, on an eerie sort of oblivious auto-pilot.

Stepping into Dean's boots, Crowley tightened and tied the laces. They would never be snug, but between the thick socks and the tight laces, they fit well enough, if a tad loose — a sock in the toe of each boot would make all the difference. Leaving the boots on, he set his own black loafers atop the pile of clothing, double-checked the belt of his robe, then picked up the pile. Of course that was when Dean woke up. From the sofa came Dean’s morning-rough voice, “What the hell are you still doin’ here? Thought you woulda taken off by now.”

A half smile tugged at Crowley’s lips, and for a moment he allowed the memory to speak through him. “Darling, what sort of trollop do you take me for?”

The memory wanted him on the sofa, but he resisted that much, so he didn’t see Dean’s grin when he finally opened his eyes and replied, “The kind who likes being tied up and —”

That was when Crowley was supposed to cut him off, but he knew the more he indulged, the deeper his heaven would sink its hooks, until he forgot it wasn’t real. Exerting his will, he wrenched free of the memory’s grasp and Dean carried on talking to the echo of Crowley-that-was. Hearing only one half of the conversation was beyond surreal. 

Eventually Dean got off the sofa so the blanket slid to the floor, revealing his gloriously naked form. Though it was only a memory of him, Crowley still appreciated the view when Dean bent to retrieve his jeans from where they had been abandoned on the floor. Jeans in hand, he climbed the stairs, his bare feet making hardly any sound.

Crowley turned to leave, only to find Bobby standing between him and the door. Behind his scruffy beard was a bemused expression which quickly became narrowed eyes and a hint of a smile. The silence between them was broken by Bobby who said, “So, I ain’t one to pry — anythin’ I know ‘bout your life after my death, you shared all on your own — but if you don’t mind me askin’...”

It was tempting to say he didn’t owe Bobby an explanation, but the truth was, he owed Bobby a whole lot more, and Crowley didn’t like owing anyone anything. All the same, no one needed all the gritty details. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough,” Bobby replied. “So, uh, you an’ Dean…?” 

The unfinished question hung in the air between them until Crowley sighed. “It was a few years ago — that is, a few years before I died — when Dean had the Mark of Cain. Metatron tried to kill Dean, but the Mark wouldn’t let him go so easily. It brought him back as a demon, free of all those pesky inhibitions that kept him so unhappy for so long. The two of us spent a highly entertaining six weeks ignoring anything resembling responsibilities.”

When Bobby didn’t respond, Crowley continued, “To be clear, I was along for the ride. It was Dean who decided practically everything we did that summer. It was everything I wanted, except it wasn’t Dean. Not truly. They called me a monster, but Dean under the influence of the Mark was so much worse. I don’t think he was capable of caring about anything anymore.”

His expression unreadable, Bobby asked, “So what‘d you do?”

“The only thing I could do,” Crowley replied. “I made him believe I’d been playing him all along, so he’d leave. I orchestrated a meeting between him and Sam, as I knew Sam would be able to cure him, and I made sure Castiel had the grace he needed to help. Neither of them would have accepted my assistance without looking for strings attached, so I gave them what they wanted to see.”

Bobby sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Well ain’t life just a kick in the balls. Need a hand carryin’ any o’ that?”

When Crowley declined his offer, Bobby nodded and retrieved his ever-present stick of chalk. Neither said a word while he drew the sigil for his own heaven, but when it was done and the chalk back in his pocket, Bobby clapped a hand to Crowley’s shoulder and said, “I love those boys like my own, but they ain’t perfect. Sometimes they can’t see what’s right in front of ‘em. Just… don’t go losin’ yourself in the past when the past ain’t givin’ nothin’ back.”

Crowley had never done well with genuinely positive displays of emotion directed at him. Being dead had done little to change that, but ever since his ascension to Heaven had restored his soul to its original, uncorrupted state, he felt things more clearly. All of which meant that Crowley retorted, “Thanks, Doctor Phil. Beautiful sentiment, but I believe we should be going.”

Bobby’s forehead wrinkled and he shook his head. “You an’ Dean deserved each other. Couple of emotionally constipated, snarky jackasses.”

Back in familiar territory, Crowley smirked. “The things you put up with for the pleasure of my company. Care to get the door, mate?”

Though he shook his head with a wry smile, Bobby opened the door and passed through it with a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Once through, Bobby snatched up the knife that he always wore sheathed in his belt, and sliced his hand.

Crowley dropped his double-armload of clothing onto Bobby’s chair and said, “Bobby? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Ignoring him, Bobby drew a ward against angels in blood — or soul, according to Frank — above the door. Once it was complete, his shoulders slumped, the exhaustion immediately visible. He pressed the sleeve of his jacket against the palm of his hand and shuffled in the direction of the stairs. Crowley rushed to support him, and together they climbed the stairs.

Once Bobby was safely in his bed, Crowley removed Bobby’s boots and set them on the floor. If Frank was any example, Bobby needed to sleep until his soul could recover. It seemed like he was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, but when Crowley turned to leave, Bobby said, “Should be safe for now. Go fix up your new duds.” His words were punctuated by a yawn. “We’ll head on back to th’ Roadhouse after.”

Crowley had been planning to remain on watch on the off chance the angels decided to get creative, but there was no reason he couldn’t do both. Clearing the coffee table, Crowley arranged everything he needed within arms reach, both for sewing and for self-defense, just in case. He was out of practice, but he wanted to be done by the time Bobby woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All references to demon Dean and the triplets come from my series [The Misadventures of Growley and Squirrel](http://archiveofourown.org/series/543232)


	5. Chapter 5

For the second time since he started, Crowley stood on a chair in the bathroom to see the fit of his clothes in the mirror. The first time had revealed flaws that needed correcting, but as far as he could tell, he’d managed to nail the alterations. After trimming the excess length off of a pair of cargo trousers, he hemmed the cut ends and used the scrap material to expand the waistband at the back without sacrificing the integrity of the seams. He wasn’t sure if clothing suffered wear and tear in Heaven, but he wasn’t about to risk having to repair his new wardrobe when it was preventable with a little extra effort.

The light grey t-shirt that had been Dean’s fit a touch more snug on Crowley, but Dean’s black Carhartt button up was perfectly loose over top of the t-shirt. Add in the hiking boots, and it was a reasonable compromise between style and utility. He had no intention of taking the plunge into full hunter chic — plaid flannel was undoubtedly humanity’s worst sin — but it wouldn’t have suited him if he had.

Crowley’s old clothes hung in Bobby’s closet, currently safe, though he eventually planned to move them to one of Bobby’s less-used memories, along with the sewing kit, so Bobby could remove the anchor from his favourite. Of course, he could have brought it all back to his own heaven, but that assumed that he ever meant to go back there. All in all, he thought that a dangerous notion, best forgotten.

There had been no disturbances while he worked. Either they hadn’t been pursued, or Bobby’s soul magic had been sufficient to turn away anyone chasing them. Whichever was the truth, Crowley was just as glad not to have to test his mediocre witchcraft against Heaven’s might, especially without having much in the way of spell ingredients. To that end, once he was satisfied with his outfit, Crowley devoted himself to scouring Bobby’s house for anything he might use in a spell.

It might not have been a high class establishment, but the ingredients he found were contained in little glass bottles for the most part, though some were in little plastic zip-top bags. Crowley quickly found he preferred the zip-top bags and searched until he found more of them in a kitchen drawer. He stuffed components in the many pockets of his new cargo trousers, grouped by type for the purposes of spells, determined to be as prepared as possible to pull his own weight.

Once he had gathered everything he could find for his pockets, Crowley rebuilt the stack of books meant for Charlie, then settled in his usual place on the sofa with a spellbook. If he was going to be of use to the Roadhouse crew, he needed to brush up. He managed to read through about a quarter of the book before slow footfalls and creaking floorboards heralded Bobby’s return to consciousness.

Before coming into view, Bobby called down the stairs, “If there’s a sonuvabitch ex-demon downstairs, I’d appreciate you grabbin’ me a beer.”

Marking his page with a scrap of paper, Crowley got up and set his book atop the stack. Fighting the urge to smile, he replied, “Get it yourself, you crusty old bastard.”

Contradicting himself immediately, Crowley fetched a Margiekugel from the fridge. The footsteps sped up slightly until Bobby reached the bottom of the stairs. “If I’m old, that makes you a goddamn fossil.”

“We _are_ both dead,” said Crowley, offering up the beer, “so I suppose we could be well on our way to _becoming_ fossils.”

Bobby huffed a laugh and came to a halt a few paces from Crowley, accepting his beer with a grin. “Lemme get a look at you.” He paused to look Crowley up and down. “Apart from the pants, it looks like you raided Dean’s closet. That why you had to dive into a memory of him butt naked?”

“Well, that, yes,” replied Crowley, “and I happened to rifle through the drawers of the triplets upstairs when they weren’t aware, so I knew I could acquire trousers with a plethora of pockets there.” He paused a moment for comedic timing, then added. “Naked Dean was icing on the proverbial cake.”

With an amused snort, Bobby claimed his chair and twisted the top off his beer. “You’d think you’d quit tryin’ to sell me shit I ain’t buyin’, son.”

“Son? Your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was likely in nappies when I was mortal. Who you calling son?”

“You. Dean used to try an’ pull the same damn bullshit.” Bobby shook his head. “I figured, since you’ve got a couple hundred years on him, it’d be reasonable to assume you’d grown past that nonsense, but no. I already raised a couple o’ Winchesters. Don’t make me parent you, too, boy.”

“Fine,” Crowley sneered. “The trousers were for practicality, the boots because they match, but the shirts smell like Dean. I thought, since I won’t be going back there again for the foreseeable future, it’d be nice to have that, at least. We good? That enough caring and sharing for today’s episode?”

Bobby screwed up his face like he was struggling against words that wanted out. “God dammit, I don’t get paid for this shit, an’ I’m fresh outta my bed. Yeah, you done good. You don’t look like a demon no more. Sit down, shut up, and read awhile. I gotta rest up before we think about goin’ back to the Roadhouse.”

Crowley was no idiot. He knew dwelling on the past was probably a bad idea, especially in a place which encouraged people to stagnate in their happy memories. It was his mistake to make though. Reclaiming his spot on the sofa, he went back to his book and attempted to ignore the little twinge in what passed for his heart.

*

Near as Crowley could tell, it didn’t take Bobby long to recover once he was awake. By the time Crowley finished with the spellbook he’d been reading and started on another, Bobby seemed a little more energetic. Of course, it was hard to tell, given Bobby’s usual lack of enthusiasm for anything, so Crowley continued to read.

When Bobby finished the book he’d been reading, he groaned and pushed himself up out of his chair. Crowley marked his page and looked up to see Bobby standing in front of him, waiting. Setting his book with the others, Crowley asked, “Time we were going, then?”

Bobby replied, “Nope. Time you lose that shirt that don’t fit you. I got plenty upstairs that’ll fit you just fine.”

Crowley couldn’t help feeling a little protective of his new outfit. “I’m not losing the Carhartt. The whole look hinges on it.”

The corners of Bobby’s mouth turned up in a half smile and he indicated the stairs with a jerk of his head. “You can keep that one, but the t-shirt’s gotta go. C’mon, I even got a few that ain’t hardly been worn.”

With a carefully casual shrug, Crowley stood and followed Bobby upstairs to the master bedroom. Hesitating at the doorway, Crowley said, “If you wanted me to take my clothes off, you could’ve asked.”

Wrinkling his nose, Bobby shook his head and replied, “Git your ass in here an’ pick a damn shirt, idjit.”

So saying, Bobby opened the middle drawer of his chest of drawers, revealing an array of soft, old t-shirts. Some were tattered around the collar, some had holes, and all of them were faded, but they definitely looked comfortable. Comfort was a factor Crowley hadn’t considered for clothing in a very long time.

He hesitated over the grey shirts, tempted to stick with the neutral shade he already wore, if only because faded grey was still just another shade of grey. Passing over the collection of shirts bearing prints of deer and bears, he found himself gravitating towards a plain green shirt. It might have once been olive or forest green, but years of wear had faded it to a soft mossy green. It was perfect.

Removing his black Carhartt shirt briefly, Crowley swapped Dean’s old grey tee for Bobby’s faded green, then shrugged the Carhartt back on. Holding his arms by his sides, he turned to face Bobby and said, “Well? How do I look?”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/139143410@N06/39184271701/in/album-72157688571094442/)

Bobby gave a brief nod in response. “Better. Y’ain’t stretchin’ your seams no more, at least.”

That brought a smile to Crowley’s face, and he patted his belly with both hands. “Before I claimed it, the fellow who wore this body had a rather sedentary job and a weakness for the dessert cart. At the time, my only thought was image — having a bit of a spare tire can make one seem relatable in sales — but now, I can’t imagine being anyone else.”

A thought struck him and he mused aloud, “Isn’t it funny, how life turns out? I’m wearing one of my former clients, who is probably just about ready to become a brand new crossroads demon. I wonder who he’ll end up wearing. All for the sake of vanity.”

“Yeah, well, that ain’t you no more,” said Bobby. “If you had the power to make deals still, you figure you’d still let that fella sell his soul?”

“Hell no! I know what that poor bugger is going through and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst— well now, that’s not entirely true. I’d pop popcorn and sit right up close to watch Lucifer go through what I went through, but no one else.”

“Can’t say I’d blame you there, but see? You ain’t the same person you used to be, no matter what face you’re wearin’.” Bobby clapped Crowley on the shoulder and continued, “C’mon, I think maybe it’s time we blew this pop stand. I’m ‘bout as rested as I’m gonna get.”

It felt odd getting ready to return to the Roadhouse after so long in Bobby’s heaven. Crowley couldn’t begin to imagine how long they had been gone or how long it had felt like for everyone else, but if he had to guess how long he had spent with just Bobby for company, he would have said about a month. Life with Bobby had become routine and easy, but the thought of other people felt at once exciting and intimidating. What if they decided they didn’t want him around anymore? What if they had come to their senses and refused to trust a former demon? What if—

There were too many “what ifs” to contemplate. Several lifetimes of practice told Crowley to make plans for all of them, but he was tired of planning for the worst. If any of those things happened, he would return to his own heaven and hide in his bittersweet memories until he forgot they were memories.

Between the two of them, they were able to carry the stack of books Crowley had set aside, so once Bobby drew the sigil for the Roadhouse, they walked through the door with their hands full. On the other side, the Roadhouse looked just as it always had, but it was more crowded than when they had left. Charlie, Ellen, Rufus, and Eileen sat at a table listening to Bill talk, while Ash and Frank sat at the bar watching angel radio and Jo stood behind the bar pouring a beer.

Charlie was the first to notice their return, waving before either of them could say anything. Grinning from ear to ear, she nudged Eileen and interrupted whatever Bill had been saying with, “Guys! They’re back!”

Everyone immediately got up to greet them and relieve them of the stacks of books they carried. Crowley expected everyone to rush Bobby, but he got his fair share of arm squeezes and pats on the back as well, and surprisingly, Charlie, Frank, and Eileen went directly to him first. It was unanticipated, and he didn’t relax until everyone was seated again.

Crowley, Bobby, Ash, and Jo pulled up chairs to join the rest at a couple of tables pushed together. Frank opted to remain at the bar watching angel radio, but nobody expected otherwise. Charlie dashed over to the bar and returned with a beer for Bobby and something green for Crowley. At his questioning look, she said, “Sonic Screwdriver. Last time I made a blue one, so I figured I’d make this one green.”

Despite being bright green, it was surprisingly good. As with all new flavours since becoming a human soul, Crowley was awash with sensation, the unexpected raspberry taste bursting on his tongue together with the orange juice and vodka. It was distracting, so Crowley didn’t hear Rufus addressing him until he snapped his fingers and said, “Hey, Crowley, you in there?”

Crowley looked up from his drink to see everyone looking at him with varying degrees of concern. “Hmm? Apologies, but we should have Miss Bradbury tend bar more often.”

Charlie replied, “Aw heck, that’s nothing. You should try my Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, though I think I might be missing ingredients for that.”

It was just as well. Crowley had never sampled an attempt to recreate the drink that promised to feel like “having your brains smashed in by a slice of lemon wrapped ‘round a large gold brick”, but it was probably not something to attempt before intelligent conversation. He filed the thought away for another time.

“Anyway,” said Rufus, “as I was saying, Crowley. What made you finally decide to lose the Armani?”

Standing to display his many-pocketed cargo trousers, Crowley patted his hip pockets. “Seeing as I can no longer simply teleport to warehouses stocked with spell components, this seemed like the best possible solution.” Reclaiming his seat, he added, “And I’m told the suit was for the old me, not whatever I am now.”

Bobby said nothing, but wore an incredibly smug smile. The consensus around the table seemed to be that Crowley looked better in his new clothes, or as Eileen said, “You look like you belong here now.”

Cutting through all the clothing talk, Jo said, “That’s great and all, but isn’t anyone gonna say what we found?”

Crowley was curious, but it was Bobby who immediately perked up and asked, “You found somethin’?”

Ellen cast her daughter an annoyed glance. “I was getting to that, Jo.” Then, surprisingly, she addressed Crowley, “I didn’t wanna get your hopes up, but Ash’d heard somethin’ on angel radio a bit before you showed up. It didn’t so much make sense before, but after you showed up an’ we got to talkin’ about our kids that one time, I decided to check it out.”

Jumping in when Ellen paused, Bill said, “Honey, you’d turn a headline into a three book series. Crowley, we found your son, Gavin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting the Sonic Screwdriver. This time it's green, so the recipe for this one is [here](http://thedrunkenmoogle.com/post/4043898285/the-eleventh-doctors-sonic-screwdriver-doctor). Recipes for a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster vary widely, so have fun googling if you're curious.


	6. Chapter 6

On some level, Crowley was aware that his mouth had fallen open and he was staring off into space, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. His son, Gavin, whom he’d thought was lost to him forever, was not only in Heaven, but had actually been located.

The words that broke through his thoughts came from Charlie. “Hey! Crowley! Snap out of it.”

He blinked and focused on the first face he saw, which happened to be Ellen’s. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly and said, “Right then. Did you just say what I think you said? Because it sounded like you said you found my boy, Gavin.”

“We did,” replied Ellen. “He’s with his Fiona, so he didn’t wanna leave, but he said you’re welcome to visit any time you want.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean, I can see my boy again _and_ meet his lady love? When can we leave? Hell, just show me his sigil and I’ll go myself.”

At that, Ash stood and held out his hands, palms down. “Now hold up just a second. I get that you’re all fired up to go see your kid an’ his missus, but you just got back. If you go rushin’ out there again so soon, we’re gonna end up right back where we started. On lockdown for the timeless, incalculable future.”

Intellectually, Crowley had known that, but it was still hard to accept. He took another sip of his drink and forced himself to calm down. “You’re right, of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

Bobby’s strong hand clapped Crowley on the shoulder and he said, “Hey, even if you could take off right away, you still ain’t given your student there her homework yet.”

In all the hubbub, Crowley had entirely forgotten about the books he had selected for Charlie’s language lessons. Many of the books were for later, after she had sorted out the basics, but there were a couple of introductory primers.

“Wait, what?” said Charlie. “What homework?”

Crowley smirked and walked over to the pile of books to retrieve the two of which he’d been thinking, then dropped them on the middle of the table. “That homework. I hope you’ve been practicing your Latin, Your Highness, because I think I might have to quiz you.”

Charlie’s groan was music to his ears. “Just tell me I don’t have to call you Professor.”

Everyone else at the table chuckled, so Crowley replied, “I’ll also answer to Headmaster, Lord Tyrant, or Mister Crowley.” He deliberately paused a beat before adding, “Your Highness.”

Both received their share of good-natured teasing, but it _was_ good-natured. Crowley was dubbed Lord Tyrant and someone suggested that Charlie might have tried harder to stay alive if she’d known she’d have to go back to school in the afterlife, but everyone was all smiles. Crowley reclaimed his seat, settled in, and sipped his drink, completely comfortable for once.

After everyone had caught up and shared their stories of their time away — apart from the expected, apparently Jo and Eileen had started a prank war in the Roadhouse that had gone on far too long until Rufus put an end to it — Charlie demanded that Crowley make good on his promise to tend bar. While everyone else split off to play games of pool or darts, Crowley mixed Red Wedding Spiked Punch for anyone who wanted one.

Seated at the bar, ignoring the revelry in the room, Frank continued to monitor angel radio on Ash’s Frankenputer. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Frank said, “Nice to see you decided to show up. Thought you might’ve decided to bail on us.”

Pausing in the middle of mixing, Crowley replied, “Of course I came back. I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you lot. You’re all—”

He broke off, uncertain of how to proceed. Were they all friends? They were people who mattered to him, who he wouldn’t hesitate to protect if necessary. He had said the same about the Winchesters, though, and they hadn’t returned the sentiment. Their friendship had been a fantasy he consoled himself with on bad days. But the Roadhouse crew were undeniably different in a way he hesitated to quantify.

Frank interrupted his thoughts. “Don’t hurt yourself, Cupcake. You’ll figure it out eventually. In the meantime, while you’re back there, how about you fix me up a Black Russian?”

Anyone who didn’t know Frank might have taken offense at his tone, but in Crowley’s experience, it was the nicest thing Frank had ever said to him. Flashing a smile, Crowley replied, “Sure thing, Sugar.”

Frank’s “Hah!” accompanied by a grin meant Crowley was finally learning Frank’s bizarre, prickly language. After mixing the last spiked punch, he scooped ice into an old-fashioned glass and eyeballed about one third coffee liqueur and two thirds vodka. Giving it a quick stir, he then dropped in a cherry and slid it across the bar.

Finally looking away from the screen, Frank picked up the cherry by its stem and said, “What the devil is this doing in there?” 

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Crowley replied, “Just doing my part to counteract your bitterness, Sweetheart.”

Looking from the cherry, to Crowley, and back, Frank bit the cherry off its stem and tossed the stem at Crowley. While still chewing, he said, “There’s no magic cure for being me. Why don’t you go see if Sunshine and the Lollipops over there are more your style.”

Flashing a smile in response, Crowley loaded up a tray with drinks and carefully carried them over to the gaming area of the bar. It was tempting to take Frank’s outburst seriously, but it was just Frank being Frank. Crowley’s policy when it came to Frank involved mainly waiting for Frank to come to him and then trying not to screw things up, the success of which depended entirely on Frank’s mood at the time. He’d give it some more time and wait for another opportunity.

Charlie cheerfully snagged a drink off the tray, took a sip, then said, “Mmm…still so good. Guys, you really have to try this.”

Ash, Eileen, and Jo all eagerly claimed drinks, Jo convincing her parents to try one “in the name of keeping on top of the new drink recipes”. When Bobby and Rufus declined, Crowley said, “C’mon Bobby, what happened to the whole 'try somethin’ different for once'?”

Crowley’s impression was spot on and it made even Rufus laugh. Bobby scowled and snatched up a drink. “Fine,” he said, then glared and drank.

Everyone watched him expectantly, waiting for his reaction. Casting a scowl around everyone watching, Bobby sighed and took another sip. “What? Shut the hell up, stop starin’ at me an’ drink your own damn drinks.”

Chuckling, the group obligingly dispersed to their respective games again. Since both the billiards and darts games were already underway, Crowley pulled up a chair and quietly watched. Ellen and Bill were playing pool against Eileen and Charlie, while Ash, Jo, Bobby, and Rufus played darts. Neither game was without its associated memories — pool with Dean and darts in Hell — and he was feeling somewhat introspective, so he was content to leave the games to the others. The more he watched, though, the worse he felt.

Ever since his arrival at the Roadhouse heaven, Crowley had been uneasily waiting for Eileen to call him out for his involvement in her death. Had he known who the hellhound was meant for, he might have done something to prevent it — granted, he might not have, since he hadn’t known her then — but it was much too late for that sort of speculation. She had every right to be furious with him, but she never said a word about it and he wasn’t inclined to rock the boat. But perhaps Bobby was right — even if Crowley would never admit it to the old bastard: he needed to tread a different path.

When the pool game ended, Crowley stood and walked over to where Charlie and Eileen were congratulating Bill and Ellen on their win. Waiting until Eileen had finished speaking, Crowley touched her shoulder to get her attention. “I hope you don’t mind me interrupting,” he signed as he spoke, “but I was wondering if I could have a word with you in private.”

Eileen shrugged and handed her cue to Charlie. “Sure, I guess so.”

Without invading someone’s private room, the most secluded area available was the seating area in the alcove behind where Frank sat at the bar. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do. Crowley indicated the space with a sweep of his hand, and Eileen chose the table with the best lighting in the dimly lit space. Once they were seated facing each other, Crowley began, “I’ve been meaning to have this talk for some time now, but there’s always been something else. It was easier to put it off, tell myself it didn’t matter, but it does. I owe you an apology.”

It was somehow easier to get the words out when he had to concentrate on signing them at the same time. He had once prided himself on being able to make deals in any known language, but since his soul was cleansed of demonic taint, he had to work to retain the knowledge. Some lesser-used languages gathered dust in the back of his head, but Eileen made sure his ASL stayed relatively fresh. All the same, Crowley focused on getting the words just right in both languages so there could be no misunderstanding.

Eileen frowned, but nodded and said, “Alright, I’m listening.”

Taking a deep breath, Crowley said, “When I was the King of Hell, part of the job meant working with the British Men of Letters. An arrangement had been made with them before I took over. A ceasefire of sorts wherein both sides agreed to a truce so long as Hell limited their activities in the U.K to the soul trade. Everyone honoured the agreement and happily continued their respective evils, so it was an amicable state of affairs. That is, until they decided to take a stab at conquering the States.

“I was approached by one Arthur Ketch with a request to borrow a hellhound. I was assured that he needed it to eliminate a particularly troublesome hunter, to make an example sure to strike fear in the hearts of the obstinate American hunters. I’m ashamed to admit, I never asked for whom it was intended. As far as I was concerned at the time, there were only two American hunters worth saving, and they were already under my protection. When Sam called to ask if I was missing a hellhound, I was able to tell him I knew where they all were, but I knew what he meant.”

She must have known he wasn’t done, because Eileen didn’t say anything, even when Crowley paused, shoulders slumped, trying to find the words to go on. She only sat, watched, and waited.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said. “I wasn’t the one who loosed that hellhound on you, but the fact that it was able to happen at all is on me. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be alive, and for that I am dearly sorry.”

It was the first time he could recall ever offering the word ‘sorry’ in apology. He had tossed off a flippant ‘my apologies’ before, but that was to placate. Sorry was another matter. Sorry meant admitting he had been wrong. Sorry meant wishing he’d done things differently.

Eileen stared into his eyes as if looking for something, then smiled faintly. “I wondered if you were ever going to say it. Sam told me all about you, Crowley. When I met you and found out you used to be a demon, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. Where else would Ketch have gotten a hellhound?”

Crowley looked up from where he had been staring at the table. “You knew? But, you never said anything. Why?”

“We’re both already dead, Crowley. And in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in Heaven. Yeah, I was pissed when I got here, but why should I spend my afterlife being mad? If I wanted that, I would have stayed behind as a ghost.”

“You could have just as easily avoided me, though. If you knew, why have you been so—”

“Nice?” Eileen finished his sentence for him. “Crowley, you were a demon and Heaven let you in. Don’t you think that means that maybe you might deserve the second chance we’re all giving you?” She smirked and went on, “Don’t screw it up.”

Something loosened in Crowley’s chest and it felt like he could breathe properly again, despite his corporeal form being little more than a figment of his imagination. A relieved smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I can see what Moose saw in you. You’re a blessed saint, Eileen Leahy.”

Though she huffed a laugh and shook her head, Crowley didn’t miss the blush that coloured her cheeks, even in the shadowy alcove. “Sam and I weren’t—”

“I know,” said Crowley. “You never got the chance. But when the great galoot finally kicks the bucket for good — hopefully not for a very long time — I’ll be right there with you to help hunt him down so we can drag his colossal self over here.”

Standing, Eileen reached across the table and offered a hand, prompting Crowley to stand and accept. She shook his hand once and said, “Deal. Apology accepted. Now, will you quit moping and come play something with us? Ash has a deck of cards and he said we could play Bullshit later.”

Crowley grinned. “You want to play a card game built on lies with a former demon? Count me in.”

*

It wasn’t one, but many rounds of cards, and by the end nobody remembered who had won the most. Ash and Charlie took turns monitoring angel radio so Frank could play a few hands, but he soon grew anxious and returned to his post. When Charlie reclaimed her seat, she said, “I didn’t hear anyone talking about us at all. The only thing they’re talking about is that Jack kid. I guess he’s kind of a big deal.”

Crowley sighed and said, “The little nipper opened the portal that necessitated my sacrifice before he was even born. I’d say he’s a bigger deal than anyone anticipated. If Moose and Squirrel have decided to look after the tyke, chances are he’ll be grateful to his adopted parents and spare them. The same likely can’t be said of any angels sent their way. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say Heaven has probably already lost a few of their ground troops to a babe in swaddling clothes and are terrified of what might happen if it grows up.”

“Wow,” said Charlie. “Way to kill the mood. I just meant it’d probably be safe for you to go visit your kid, but yeah… Now I wish we had everything we need for the ritual. Not knowing what’s going on back home is killing me — or at least it would be if I wasn’t already dead.”

While the rest of the group looked increasingly glum, Ellen asked, “How’re we comin’ along on that front, Crowley? What’re we still missing?”

Doing a mental tally, he checked ingredients off on his fingers. “We’ve got the bowl, the knife, the firebird feather, the matches, the— did we get holy oil?”

Charlie grinned and replied, “Yeah, I snagged some off Sam and Dean when I went to browse their library. I got the banana there, too. I remembered, Sam was gonna make fruit salad, but Dean used ‘em to make banana splits.”

“Then that only leaves…huh. All that’s left is a pigeon feather. If memory serves, I should have no trouble finding one when I go see Gavin. Plenty of pigeons in the park near his flat.”

Ellen nodded once, then said, “Ash? Are the angels as distracted as Charlie seems to think?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ash replied. “I mean, sounds like they’re all pretty busy with the rugrat, but I think maybe it’s the quiet ones we gotta worry ‘bout. If our little buncha humans managed to make some high an’ mighty angel dude look bad, he probably don’t wanna go runnin’ to his bosses to ‘fess up to that. Ain’t likely we’ll see him comin’.”

“Right then,” said Ellen, “you ain’t goin’ out there alone, Crowley. Take someone with you for backup.”

Crowley shook his head. “I’ll be fine on my own. No doubt, Gavin’s brought Fiona to his modern day flat and is showing her the wonders of the twenty-first century. You’d all be bored to tears listening to him extol the virtues of indoor plumbing.”

From across the table, Bobby glared at him. “Crowley…shut up an’ take someone with you. It ain’t just for you. If an angel manages to toss your sorry ass back in your own heaven, we need to know just what we’re facin’. Backup helps all of us.”

Looking around the group revealed no sympathetic faces. He had hoped to avoid anyone else learning what a horrible father he had been, but it seemed inevitable. Shoulders slumped, Crowley replied, “Fine. Party of one, now accepting volunteers.”

Bill immediately said, “As glad as I am to see a fella reunite with his family, I think Ellen, Jo, and I could use a break.”

Jo had barely mustered a, “But Dad—” before Ellen cut her off. “You’re damn right. Took awhile to find Gavin’s heaven, all while dodgin’ the God Squad, so it’ll be nice to kick back for a bit. You too, Joanna Beth.” 

Scowling, Jo stomped off, muttering, “This sucks. Can’t even be a goddamn adult in Heaven!”

Rufus shrugged and said, “Don’t look at me. I’ve been counting the days and I’m reasonably sure it’s Shabbat. I’ll be staying right here until that’s over.”

Incredulous, Bobby retorted, “There ain’t even _days_ here! You ain’t been countin’ nothin’! An’ you’re _dead_. I think you can quit worryin’ about Shabbat.”

Acknowledging the point with a sideways nod, Rufus took a measured sip of his Scotch, visibly appreciating the finish. “Alright, fine. I just don’t wanna go out right now. Happy?”

Bobby huffed a laugh. “Oh yeah, thrilled.”

Nobody even glanced at Ash. It was far too important to have someone fluent in Enochian monitoring angel radio. As if to make up for it, Charlie practically squirmed in her chair. Offering her a half smile, Crowley said, “My deepest apologies, dear apprentice, but you have homework. You’re far too busy to go traipsing about, tempting fate.”

Charlie stood abruptly, knocking over her chair. “What?! That is totally unfair! I can’t believe you’d leave me behind, after all we’ve been through.”

“Crowley’s right,” Bobby interjected, from the end of the table. “You’re more use right here, learnin’ shit we can actually use.”

Interrupting what was undoubtedly a protest from Charlie, Crowley addressed Bobby in response. “You’re staying as well. You’re still not fully recovered, and I won’t have you overexerting yourself, or worse, having an angel toss you back into solitary.” 

Flashing a smug grin in Bobby’s direction, Charlie said, “He’s right, you know.”

Bobby grumbled, but didn’t object. Of course, that only left Eileen, who had been intently following their conversation. Taking a sip of her drink, she smiled and said, “Sounds like fun. Did he live anywhere near a hot dog cart? It’s been forever since I had good street meat.”

_Street meat?_ Crowley did his best not to cringe.


	7. Chapter 7

Stepping through the Roadhouse door, Eileen’s hand on his shoulder, Crowley emerged in the middle of a wide open, grassy field. One end of the field was rocky but covered in a sea of gorgeous purple heather. At the other end of the field stood a familiar-looking stone-walled cottage, with other similar buildings in the distance. More important was the couple leisurely strolling past the heather, the young man pausing to pluck a sprig, which he then wove into his lady’s hair.

Tapping Crowley’s arm, Eileen smirked and said, “Where did you say his apartment was again?”

Crowley, who had been staring in silence, blinked and forced himself to turn away from the scene that could have been pulled from his own memories. He should have known Gavin would have gone back to Scotland — in his heart he had always known — but he wanted to believe otherwise. He wanted to think his son had preferred his second life over his first.

Smiling thinly, Crowley signed as he spoke. “Canisbay, Scotland, early 1700s. Apparently, I misjudged.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” replied Eileen.

Without warning, Eileen then set off across the field towards the pair of young lovers. Crowley followed, grateful for his sturdy hiking boots. He wouldn’t have wanted to trek through the wet, slightly muddy field in his old black leather Testonis.

When they were within range of hearing, Gavin waved and called out, “Hello there! And who might you be?”

They weren’t close enough for Eileen to read his lips, so Crowley hurried ahead a bit, prompting Eileen to keep up. Gavin and (presumably) Fiona exchanged curious glances. Once within reasonable conversational distance, Crowley signed and said, “Gavin, I have no idea if you have any recollection of me at all, but I’m your father.”

Eyes widening, Gavin’s mouth fell open briefly, then he leaned forward to examine them both more closely. “Can it be? I thought it but a dream. Is it truly you?”

Smiling through his son’s scrutiny, Crowley replied, “I taught you to read. The first thing you read was a sports article in the newspaper, detailing the Buccaneers’ victory over the Saints.”

Though Gavin appeared increasingly convinced, Fiona watched Crowley’s hands, concern etched in her brow. “Gavin, my love, you said your father was dead. Look at his hands, aye? ‘Tis witchcraft!”

At that, Eileen stepped in. “No, he’s just translating for me. I can’t hear you talk, so he’s showing me your words with his hands. It’s… sort of like a secret code. I could teach you if you want.”

Fiona crossed her arms and regarded Eileen with skepticism in her bright blue eyes. “Show me,” she demanded.

Smiling, Eileen touched her palms together and brushed her top hand towards Fiona, then touched her two index fingers together while the rest were curled in. “Those signs mean ‘nice to meet you’. My name is Eileen, and it’s—”

Eileen then finished her sentence with the two signs she had just demonstrated. Fiona gasped. “Oh! I’m Fiona,” she said, “and it’s—”

Adorably, Fiona held her bottom lip between her teeth as she attempted to replicate the hand signs. For a beginner, she was remarkably accurate. Eileen then held her hand flat, touched her fingertips to her chin and pulled them away, like blowing a kiss. “Thank you,” she said, as she repeated the sign.

Gavin took the opportunity to interject, “Fiona, I know it might sound odd, but this actually _is_ my father. It’s…a long story. Do you think perhaps you might give us a few to talk?”

“Aye, love,” replied Fiona, touching her hand to his arm. “Take all the time you need. Eileen, would you care for me to show you around?”

“That would be great,” replied Eileen.

Waiting until the ladies were some distance away, Crowley said, “So…out of curiosity, how much do you recall?”

“Now that you’ve jogged it loose,” replied Gavin, “I remember everythin’. From the moment that terrible woman dragged me to the future, right up to when Sam and Dean sent me back so Fiona wouldnae be alone. Then, of course, there was that whole dyin’ bit. It was almost a blessing to know what to expect. Why, if demons and ghosts were real, why not Heaven? An’ now here we are.”

“Here we are, indeed.” All of the things he had intended to say were lost as he processed his son’s words. Crowley’s eyes darted around in search of any possible conversational topic. As Fiona and Eileen disappeared from view behind the distant cottage, Crowley said, “Your Fiona. Lovely girl. I don’t recall you seeing anyone when I was alive, though. How long have you been—”

“Steppin’ out together?” At Crowley’s nod, Gavin continued, “Och well, what with time travel and being dead, it’s hard to say, but if we’re only counting when I was alive and in my own time, then I suppose just o’er two years, though we’ve known each other since childhood. To be perfectly honest, Father, I ne’er wanted you to know about her at the time. I was afraid you’d frighten her away.”

Crowley closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet, heather-scented Highlands air. When he opened his eyes again, it was to find Gavin staring at him expectantly. Sighing, Crowley replied, “I don’t blame you one bit. As Fergus, I wasn’t exactly the nicest person.”

“You were an angry drunkard.”

“I was. You made the right choice, keeping her a secret from me. I only wish I’d known then what I know now.”

“Which is what?”

“If I had spent my time getting to know you, I might have realized—” Crowley broke off and shook his head. “You’re a good man, Gavin — a hell of a lot better than your old man — and I wanted you to know that I’m sorry it took me so long to notice.”

Gavin’s brows drew together thoughtfully, then he nodded. “I know it’s hardly what you’re used to now, but can I interest you in staying for dinner? Fiona made a pigeon pie and we’d love to have you join us.”

That was not the response Crowley had expected. “You would— yes, of course I’d love to join you.”

Gavin grinned. “That’s great! Let’s go tell the lasses.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/139143410@N06/39184273971/in/album-72157688571094442/)

*

The table at which the four of them were seated was small, with barely enough room for their four plates and a cup of milk apiece. The wooden chair was hard and uncomfortable, the floor on which it rested was slightly uneven, and nothing was entirely clean. Being nearly three hundred years removed from such surroundings, Crowley had forgotten what the early eighteenth century was like.

Eileen kept glancing around the room at this or that, her wide eyes and slight smile revealing her delight at the entire proceedings. She seemed to enjoy the pigeon pie well enough, but Crowley could only pick at his serving. Nevertheless, he was determined to set matters right with his son.

Gavin finished chewing a mouthful and said, “I’ve no clue how long we’ve been here, but if you’re here, it must have been nigh on three hundred years, no? I ne’er woulda guessed it’d been that long, but I suppose it ne’er felt like we died ‘til you showed up.”

“Interesting,” replied Crowley. “How long would you say you’ve been here?”

Shrugging, Gavin said, “Before I saw you two, I had no idea this was no regular day. Now, though, if I try to think back, there’s this hazy sort of cloud o’er it all.”

Fiona added, “Och, but there was that one time when we had a visit from those three lovely folks, aye? The friendly couple an’ their daughter, the frighteningly capable lass with the knives? Only, I dinnae ken how long ago it was.”

“Yes, well,” Crowley replied, “I died a few months after you did your disappearing act, but I suppose you’ve been waiting around since your ship went down. Heaven does have a way of making one forget if we’re not careful.”

If he was honest with himself, the pigeon pie was well-made. Fiona had likely spent hours on it, and everyone else was appreciating it. There was nothing wrong with it — his entirely human taste buds said the gravy was rich and the pastry was flaky — except that it tasted like he needed a bottle of whisky because it had been a bad day at the shop and he’d come home to a wife long gone and a son who hated him.

“Those were our friends,” said Eileen. “Ellen, Bill, and their daughter, Jo. They’re the ones who found you and told us.”

Gavin slowly shook his head with a bemused smile, “Amazin’. Like Heavenly explorers. An’ to think we ne’er would’ve known, had they not come to see us.”

“What a blessin’ that we’ve been here together,” said Fiona. “I dinnae ken what this place would be like without you, my love.”

The pair gave up any pretense of eating so they could gaze into each other’s eyes. Crowley glanced from one to the other, took a sip of his milk, then carefully set the glass down and took pains not to look at it again. Avoiding his meal entirely, Crowley cleared his throat and waited for the lovebirds to break eye contact. “Do you mean to tell me that the two of you have been together, in the same heaven, this entire time?”

“What?” said Gavin. “Of course we have. Why? That cannae be unusual. That family that came to visit — your friends — they were all together.”

Crowley shook his head. “They had to hunt each other down. They were all separated when they arrived. I was alone, Eileen here was alone, all of our friends were alone, reliving their happiest memories each by ourselves.”

“The very thought of making new friends in Heaven, it’s absolutely wonderful,” said Gavin. Taking a sip of his milk, he continued, “So, how did you find one another, then?”

Having also abandoned her food in favour of following the conversation, Eileen said, “We listen in on the angels’ conversations, then when we hear where someone is, we go get them. I was all on my own until Rufus found me, caught up in the same handful of happy moments. That’s how it normally goes. But Ash told me about this sort of thing. You two are soulmates.”

Crowley was no idiot. He had suspected such a thing ever since hearing that the two were together, but hearing it was another matter. The churning in his stomach had nothing to do with the food — Heaven being the land of no physical repercussions. Doing his best to ignore the bitterness choking the back of his throat, Crowley smoothed out his expression with three lifetimes of practice under his belt.

Fiona gazed at Gavin with starry eyes and said, “I’m not surprised. ‘Tis clear we were meant to be. I only wish everyone could feel the love I feel for Gavin and he for I.”

At her words, Gavin met Fiona’s eyes once more and the two were again lost to one another. A slight movement caught Crowley’s attention, and he looked to see Eileen mimicking Fiona’s lovestruck stare. She then grinned, shook her head, and signed, “Are they seriously for real?”

Without intending to, the corners of his mouth drew up. They were, without a doubt, utterly ridiculous. Crowley tried to imagine himself staring longingly into someone’s eyes while they stared back, and the mental image was somehow even worse. The idea of Dean or Bobby — or anyone else he had ever desired — wearing an expression so devoid of any intelligent thought was beyond absurd.

Echoing Eileen’s grin, Crowley signed back, “I think so. It’s almost disgusting.”

An earnest expression on her face, Eileen signed, “You don’t think it’s sweet?”

Without waiting for him to answer, Eileen’s features softened into an idiotic little smile with wide, longing eyes. Resting her elbows on the edge of the table, she propped her chin on her hands and fluttered her eyelashes at Crowley. It was so out of place on Eileen, he chuckled.

Unbidden, the sound of Charlie’s laughter came to mind, along with the ridiculously exaggerated face she would have made, and the little huff of a laugh from Bobby while he frowned and shook his head. There would have been chuckles from the Harvelles and good natured teasing from Rufus, while Ash made calf-eyes back at Eileen. Undoubtedly Frank would’ve called the whole lot of them a bunch of knuckleheads in a questionably affectionate way.

Gavin’s voice interrupted Crowley’s thoughts. “Did I miss somethin’ funny?”

And just like that, Crowley had the inescapable image in his head of Gavin and Fiona staring across the Roadhouse pool table into each other’s eyes. He pressed his lips together until he thought he could speak without laughing. “No, not really. I was merely imagining how much our friends would love this place.”

In truth, if Crowley were to bring the Roadhouse crew to Gavin and Fiona’s heaven, most of them would have been screaming with boredom within minutes. Eileen obviously thought the same, because she said, “Yeah, I can just imagine how much Frank would enjoy getting back to nature somewhere totally new.”

“Oh yes, and Jo would thoroughly enjoy the peaceful tranquility,” replied Crowley. “Not to mention—” Crowley broke off upon hearing footsteps outside. “Are either of you expecting visitors?”

Gavin and Fiona exchanged a confused look between them, but Eileen immediately grabbed her stick of chalk out of her pocket and started drawing an escape sigil on the door. Crowley dug out his own chalk and was about to draw protection sigils when the footsteps reached the door. There was no time.

“What the hell is goin’ on?” asked Gavin.

Cramming the chalk back into his pocket, Crowley snatched up a kitchen knife. “Angels. Bloody bastards would like nothing better than for us to stay quietly in our individual prison cells.”

The doorknob turned and Eileen shoved her full body weight against the door. Slicing open his palm, Crowley winced and dropped the knife. “I refuse to go back to solitary confinement.”

Dipping his fingers in the blood pooling in his hand, Crowley painted on the wall. It was too late for a protection sigil like Frank and Bobby had made, and even if Eileen finished her escape sigil, an angel was blocking the way out. What Crowley had in mind had never been done in Heaven, to his knowledge, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

From the sounds behind him, Crowley could assume that Gavin and Fiona had added their weight to Eileen’s to buy more time. He could have told them that wouldn’t work, but he chose to concentrate on painting as quickly as possible. Crowley had never had the opportunity to use such a thing himself, so he only hoped his memory had provided the proper design.

As Crowley had expected, he heard the door swing inwards, presumably shoving Eileen, Gavin, and Fiona to the floor. Someone whimpered in pain, which Crowley forced himself to ignore. He painted the little markings around the edges of his sigil while someone scrambled to their feet behind him.

“Back off, featherbrain!” said Eileen, followed by the sounds of a scuffle and a thump.

An unfamiliar voice said, “You insects really do need to learn your place. We’ve given you eternal happiness. All you need to do is stay out of trouble.”

As he painted the last line on his sigil, Crowley replied, “And you emotionless robots need to learn more about happiness before you try to replicate it.”

He couldn’t resist looking. Sudden understanding sparked in the angel’s wide eyes as Crowley slammed his hand against the angel banishing sigil. The bit of his soul on the wall shone incandescent white, a display echoed by the angel who screamed as it was blasted out.

The light faded away and with it went what felt like all of Crowley’s energy. He slumped against the wall, an empty shell scoured clean. Standing felt like too much effort, so he slid down the wall, only to be caught halfway down by a pair of strong arms.

“There now, Father, I’ve got you,” said Gavin. “Fiona, love, see if Eileen can use your help.”

Rather than Fiona, it was Eileen who said, “We’re good to go. I’ll teach you how to protect this place later, but for now we need to get out of here.”

Gavin and especially Fiona looked uncertain, but neither argued. Supported by Gavin’s arm around his back, Crowley shuffled across the room and through the open door. His vision swam, shapes blurring and resolving, but Crowley could still make out the familiar dusty, well-warded wood of the Roadhouse.

Through a haze, he saw what looked like Bobby and Rufus seated across a table from each other. There was a clatter as Bobby stood and kicked over his chair, followed by the scraping sound of Rufus sliding his chair away so he could get up.

Seeing Bobby running over, knowing he was safe in the Roadhouse, Crowley slurred, “Hi honey, I’m home,” before he succumbed to the need for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, yes, I research things that have little, if any, impact on the plot. So my time won't be entirely wasted, I offer to you [an instructional video to cook pigeon pie like Fiona did](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p9g392de0NM).


	8. Chapter 8

“Okay, the feathers I get — carrier pigeons delivered messages, and the firebird’s feather is the power source — but what’s with the banana?” asked Charlie.

Bundled up in a blanket and slippers, Crowley supervised the ritual preparations. His student had been practicing diligently while he was away, and Bobby had taken it upon himself to continue her lessons in Crowley’s absence. While Charlie wouldn’t be deciphering old spellbooks any time soon, she was at least up to the task of reading a spell out loud. Bobby could have done it, but Charlie insisted that she wanted her first bit of witchery to benefit all of them.

Holding his hand up to his ear like a phone, Crowley sang, “Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring, banana phone.”

“Seriously?” said Charlie. “I’m doing magic based on a Raffi song?”

Crowley shrugged. “Whatever works, right? Witchcraft isn’t some mystical thing forever anchored in the dark ages. It grows with the times, and if that means borrowing from a children’s song, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I get the feeling your mom would’ve hated to admit that.”

“Yes, well, Mother always did have a flair for the dramatic. I have no doubt she would have used the tongue of a messenger boy, despite any inconvenience to her or her non-existent morals.”

Grimacing, Charlie peeled the banana and placed it in the bronze bowl beside the firebird feather. “Yeah, I’ll take this over a human tongue any day of the week, thanks.”

Literally everyone else stood over at the bar, staying out of the way and casually trying to pretend they weren’t sneaking a peek every chance they could. Crowley couldn’t blame them, since everyone had contributed to the project in some way, but at least when Frank looked over he was honest about it.

Setting the pigeon feather carefully atop the TV remote, Charlie said, “Okay, I think I’m ready to roll. Just, uh, don’t move, guys.”

Without exception, everyone watching held their breath and Crowley had to resist the urge to chuckle. They had similarly tiptoed around him when he first woke up after banishing the angel, perhaps concerned he might never recover if someone spoke above a whisper. Crowley had allowed that to go on until Bobby finally disabused them of that notion, clomping into Crowley’s borrowed bedroom to drop a book in his lap. It had been endearing, in a uniquely Bobby sort of way.

Charlie read the Latin words exactly as Crowley had written them, speaking slowly and carefully. When she reached the end of the first section, she picked up the Viking ritual knife and split the banana lengthwise. Setting the knife back down, she continued the invocation, pouring holy oil over the bowl’s contents as she spoke. With the final word, she struck a match and lit the oil aflame.

Instead of being immediately consumed, the firebird feather glowed, lending its colours to the flames. As the fire flared in the bowl, a smaller flame kindled to consume the pigeon feather on the TV remote. There was a collective gasp from the spectators and Crowley smiled to himself. It was always the showy effects that impressed people, never the actual outcome of the spell.

Crowley was sorely tempted to get up and demonstrate the spell’s success, to claim the accolades for himself. Instead, he pulled his blanket a little more snugly around his shoulders and said, “Well Skywalker, show the good folks here what you can do with the Force.”

Charlie grinned. “If I’m Skywalker, you’re Yoda, in which case you didn’t say that right.”

“Oh no,” Crowley replied. “There is no universe in which I’m a Muppet.”

From his place at the bar, Rufus called over, “This is probably fascinating to you, but can one of you two yahoos test the thing already? Some of us aren’t getting any younger.”

“You’re not getting any older either, idjit,” Bobby retorted.

“Okay, okay,” said Charlie. “Quit your bitching, bitches.”

Charlie picked up the remote, aimed it at the TV, and pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life, showing the inside of an empty meeting room. Brow furrowed, she pressed a button and the image on the screen changed to show a priest sitting in a confessional. All eyes in the room turned to Crowley.

“Really?” said Eileen.

“What?” said Crowley. “This is every single camera I ever set to broadcast to my own personal satellite. There’s bound to be a few duds in there. Keep clicking.”

Rapidly clicking through the channels, Charlie sped past offices, meeting rooms, and mansions, until she finally landed on a room which Crowley immediately recognized. Paintings and knickknacks lined the walls, crates and boxes were piled high, and dusty scrolls were stacked on shelving. Several of the boxes had been opened and stood empty, while one had been filled with the _Supernatural_ book series.

Crowley pointed at the screen. “That one! Someone write down the channel number so we don’t lose it.”

“The hell is that?” said Ash.

“Hell,” replied Crowley. “Or at least, Hell adjacent. Hell North, I suppose you could call it. I operated out of a building topside, so my demons would have somewhere to report in without all the hassle of traveling to and from Hell. That right there is my personal collection — all the most valuable things I collected over the years — and it looks like someone’s made a few inroads. In lieu of a camera in the throne room, this is likely our best chance at overhearing someone. Demons _love_ to gossip.”

Ellen snatched up a pen and paper and scribbled down the number. “Got it. Now keep flickin’ an’ let’s see what else we can see.”

For all that they claimed it was best to let go of the past, none of them could resist its siren song. There was a difference between living in the past and checking up on loved ones, though, and Crowley wasn’t about to argue if it meant there was a chance to see how the Winchesters and their angel were doing. Hell, even a peek at their infant antichrist would have made the whole spell worthwhile.

While everyone else stared at the TV and Charlie flicked through the channels, Bobby got off his stool and wandered over to sit on a chair beside Crowley. One side of Bobby’s beard twitched up in a half smile and he said, “Well, your plan worked. I had my doubts at first, but here we are. You done good, kid.”

Completely ignoring the last word, Crowley replied, “It wasn’t only me. Everyone had a hand in it. I wasn’t even the one to make it work.”

“You ain’t gonna take credit for anythin’? Do you think demonic you woulda put your ass on the line like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine, lemme spell it out for you. After you showed up deader than a dead guy should be and did your little _Sleepin’ Beauty_ act, your boy an’ his girlfriend decided to stick around. Good kids. Wasn’t much to do sittin’ around waitin’ for you to wake up, so we got to talkin’. He told me all sorts o’ stuff, like how you used to beat the everlovin’ tar outta him.”

Crowley didn’t even bother to deny it, nodding stiffly instead, but Bobby kept talking. “He also told me ‘bout how you set him up with a job after he came to our time. Oh, an’ how you visited an’ brought him whatever he needed, an’ how you kept callin’ even after he was doin’ fine on his own. He don’t give a damn what you used to be. He said he knew you as a mortal man, the King of Hell, an’ a spirit, an’ each time you’ve been better than the last, so it don’t matter what you are now.”

Blinking away the tears that threatened, Crowley temporized, “Er…that’s— I’m sure that was merely reflexive gratitude for, you know, my disposing of an angel who never would have bothered them had I not gone to visit. He’ll likely return to his former loathing soon enough.”

Bobby scowled and shook his head. “No he won’t, you stubborn dick. Now shut up an’ accept the goddamn compliment.”

Through the grace of God, or whoever else might have been looking out for him, Crowley was spared the need to reply when Charlie whooped. A glance up at the screen revealed that Charlie’s channel surfing had finally landed on another of his non-business related cameras, this time inside what Crowley recognized as Casey’s General Store in Lebanon.

“I’ll admit, it’s a damn sight more interesting than all those offices,” said Ellen, “but why’d you stop on that rinky dink little store?”

Practically beaming, Charlie replied, “Because _that’s_ the place Dean goes to pick up a sixer of beer when it’s not worth the trouble of driving somewhere farther away.”

All eyes again turned to Crowley, who shrugged. “They never left me unattended in their secret clubhouse, so that was the closest I could manage when it came to getting eyes on them. I have cameras in every local business they frequent. Write that one down and try to find the pub.”

Doing as he said, Charlie grumbled, “This’d be so much easier if we could see these places when the guys are actually there.”

Just like that, the possibilities opened up before Crowley. Dropping his blanket, he got up from his seat and took Charlie by the shoulders. “You’re brilliant. I could kiss you.”

“Eww. Please don’t,” said Charlie with a grimace.

“Oh, no, good lord, I’d never even think of it,” replied Crowley, releasing Charlie and patting her shoulder. “Whatever. Point is, we’re no longer anchored to the regular flow of time, correct? We don’t even know when we’re watching. Could be new, or could be from ten years ago. We’re shooting in the dark here, people. But since we’re not limited by linear time, we would only need to enhance the spell on the remote to skip through the data we’re receiving and stop on what we’re looking for, which in our case is the Winchesters.”

Understanding dawned in more than one set of eyes, but it was Frank who said, “Well, what the devil are you waiting for, baby cakes? Get your ass over here, grab a drink, and let’s figure out what we need to make it happen.”

Several tables were again pushed together for a group brainstorming session and Bill rounded up drink orders. The TV was left on Casey’s General Store despite the absence of any sign of the Winchesters. No one disparaged his contribution or begrudged having to work with him and there was no grumbling about his loyalties. Nine very different people sat around the tables and waited to hear what he had to say. He was probably still a work in progress, but beyond any shadow of a doubt, Crowley felt wanted.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/139143410@N06/39184269991/in/album-72157688571094442/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, keep your eyes on my ao3 (or better yet, subscribe to me to be notified when I post something new). I have plans for this motley crew of dead folks.
> 
> If you liked the art, please go show the artist some love. [Here's the art masterpost](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/post/168766921428/roadhouse-ten-art-masterpost) for you to shower with likes, reblogs, and compliments on Tumblr.
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed this story, please click the kudos button and leave me a comment. Without your feedback, I have no idea who read to the end, and I'd love to hear from you. If you're so inclined, I can also be found on Tumblr as @thayerkerbasy


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